Bitter Laughter
by hewhoistomriddle
Summary: Cleaning up and reposting. The dark!twin!Harry story that everyone feels they need to have their own version of.
1. Repost: The Prophecy

**Notes:** (cringes) Yeah, I'm cleaning it up. Just goes to show everyone must face their past sometime. Wow, I never realized it was so _different_ from the canon-verse.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

* * *

**The Prophecy**

* * *

_He who shall vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies_

_Born to those who thrice defied him_

_The Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal_

_And he shall have powers the Dark Lord knows not_

_The light must guide him from darkness_

_And protect his innocence, his wrath_

_The one who will vanquish the dark lord will live as the seventh month dies_

* * *

_Order Headquarters, Hogwarts_

* * *

A meeting was currently in progress in the deepest recesses of Hogwarts School, one of the last remaining strongholds of the resistance against the dark wizard Lord Voldemort.

Only a few, but important, members of the Order of the Phoenix were in attendance. Only those who were (_or will be_) undoubtedly involved once he disclosed to them a vague but auspicious prophecy by one Sybil Trelawney.

The Potters, the Longbottoms, Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew (both of whom James had insisted be present), Minerva McGonagall and, though hidden to everyone but him, Severus Snape.

_Hope, relief, fear, doubt, horror_… he watched as the various emotions crossed thei young but battle-hardened faces. Unsurprisingly, the Potters and the Longbottoms were the most distressed – both couples, after all, very much fit the conditions of the prophecy, having escaped the Dark Lord thrice by the skin of their teeth and expecting children by the end of the next month July.

"Clearly, the prophecy points to the two families in his room and a chance for a savior," Dumbledore said tiredly, making sure that everyone understood the ramifications of Trelawney's words. "We cannot risk _Tom_ finding out about this prophecy. I know my student. He will stop at _nothing_ to ensure the destruction of any threat to his power. Rest assured, he will come at you to eliminate the children once they are born, more likely before that."

"Professor," Frank Longbottom suddenly asked in a stony voice. "I will say it right now, there is a _spy _in the Order, _spies_ even. Something as huge as this will not escape his notice. Our lives are already forfeit."

"Is that how you regard this war, Auror Longbottom? Are we already so weak?" Dumbledore answered coldly. "I intend to put all of you under the Fidelius charm, with myself as secret-keeper. This is the best protection I can offer."

"What of the resistance then?!" James jumped up in protest. "The four of us Professor… do not say it will not be a crippling move to take us out of the fighting! We – _I_ – cannot go into hiding, hell, I'm Gryffindor! Protect _Lily_… at least…"

Lily vehemently shook her head at Dumbledore's offer, emerald eyes darkening in resolve. The Longbottoms reluctantly agreed with James.

Dumbledore gave in.

"We'll wait until the babies are born and try to see which one of them would be our savior. Then you will definitely have to go into hiding, no arguments." Dumbledore said, waving a hand over any protests that might spring up.

In the shadows, Snape's lip curled in disgust. _Foolish gryffindors, not even for the safety of your own child will you give up the glory of fighting…_

After that, instigated by a question by one Sirius Black, the topic shifted into more familiar and less daunting territories (defense strategies, war refugees, recruitment), allowing them to relegate the prophecy to the back of their minds to come to terms with later.

Peter shyly excused himself, saying that his mother was sick and worried at home and needed him. He was dismissed without a thought.

* * *

_The Slytherin Manor, Somewhere in England_

* * *

Wormtail apparated just outside the anti-apparition wards of the Dark Lord's headquarters, clad in the fearsome dark robes and stark white mask of a death eater. He went inside, trembling visibly in both fear and excitement. The guards sneered at him as he passes the door leading straight in the Dark Hall, where all war updates were reported.

He saw a jet of blood red light a second before being hit with pain. He screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in agony. Voldemort held the curse for a minute before ending it. Wormtail was panting hard.

"Speak," He hissed coldly, settling into a elaborate chair on a dais, a fitting throne.

"Master…" Wormtail rasped, his knees still quaking from the torture. "A prophecy has been made by Sybil Trelawney, a prophecy about the one who could _defeat_ you." He recited the prophecy as Dumbledore had.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed even further. The air around him dropped several degrees.

"And who will be such?" He asked, rising from his seat, already contemplating a counter-plan.

"There are two possibilities, Master. The Potter child…or the Longbottom's…"

"And I suppose you want me to go after the Longbottoms, _Wormtail_? Potter was, after all, your _friend_ was he not?" Scarlet eyes gleamed as the countenance twisted into a feral smile. "No matter, I will kill both families after the children are borne. It seems only fitting to give my _equal_ a proper send off."

"Master, Dumbledore arranged for them to be put under Fidelius as soon as the children are born." Wormtail stuttered, his heart beating painfully.

"That, Wormtail, is where _you_ come in…"

* * *

_St. Mungo's Hospital, 1 month later_

* * *

St. Mungo's Center was as busy as a hive, the air heavy with cruelty, melancholy, fear and panic. A multitude of people, both fighters and civilians, came in, reeking of blood and decay and death.

Tonight, the maternity ward was also busy. Lily Potter and Alice Longbottom were giving birth to a possible hero.

Their husbands were in the hall, currently sleeping off exhaustion as they leaned on the walls. A few members of the Order, those who were off duty or being treated for injuries, were also present at Dumbledore's insistence.

It would not be below the Dark Lord to attack the hospital, no matter how riddled it was with Aurors.

The first cry erupted an hour before midnight. Neville (named after Alice's father) was an arguably cute, average sized baby with a round face, black eyes and dark brown hair. Frank was wide awake by then and had tears in his eyes as he held his firstborn.

James waited patiently, pacing in agitation. Sirius Black, his best friend, put an arm around him for support.

The twins came out near simultaneously. The nurse, exhausted from treating so many injured, realizing that she did not observe which twin came first, randomly picked the one, thinking that it made no difference. _She chose wrong_.

Chris Potter, an average sized baby with red hair and hazel eyes, was born at 11:59pm. He looked very healthy and very strong.

Meanwhile, Harry Potter, that smaller of the twins, had emerald green eyes and black tuffs of hair. He looked frail and thin compared to his brother. He was born at exactly 12 midnight, _when July died._

Dumbledore arrived, took a good look at the nurse's notes and the two very different babies, and picked up a sleeping Chris Potter, hope bursting in his ancient chest and leaking into his eyes. _This one…_

"This little one is going to save us all." He cried happily.

_How very wrong he was.

* * *

_

End Chapter One.


	2. Repost: The Attack

**Notes**: Thanks to the reviewers. I winced every time I read something unrealistic_ that I cannot change_ unless I want to derail the story.

**Disclaimer**: Not Mine.

* * *

**The Attack**

* * *

_Slytherin Manor, a few weeks after birth_

* * *

Even in the warmth of summer, Peter Pettigrew kept right on shivering as he reported in.

"The Potter twin, my Lord – the redhead, _Chris_ Potter, that's the one Dumbledore believes can defeat you. The entire family is already in hiding. _Black_ is currently secret-keeper. I have cast the compulsion charm though, and it will only be a matter of time before he breaks under it. It would, after all, be less obvious if _I_ were made secret-keeper."

_And why do you think that is, Wormtail? It's because you are weak._

"Carry on."

* * *

_Godric's Hollow, a year later_

* * *

James and Lily Potter were sitting in their living room, talking quietly while the twins slept in the nursery. They were talking about Chris.

Of course, they would never admit it to themselves, but ever since the twins were born, Chris was a little more loved and cared for than Harry. It was reasonable, they thought, that they spend more time with the more exuberant twin because of the prophecy. Chris would need all the love and support he could get if he were to fight the greatest dark wizard in the world, a monster both terrible and heartless. Who knows how much time they had left with their _baby_?

It didn't help that in contrast to Chris, who was a very active and noisy and the apple of his parents' eyes, Harry was very quiet and very well-behaved and a little difficult to love. He was small and thin despite all the feedings and creepy. James could swear that if you looked close enough, Harry's emerald eyes glowed eerily brilliant.

A summer rain poured heavily outside, pounding the roof in a steady rhythm. Suddenly, lightning flashed and an unnoticed shadow crept over to the house. It waved a hand and the protection and security wards on the house broke like shards of thin glass.

James and Lily were on their feet in an instant, wands at the ready. The sensation of the falling wards and the feeling of sheer vulnerability struck a vein of terror in their hearts.

"Lily, take Chris and run! I'll hold him off!" The dark-haired man yelled to his wife. She looked at him with tears in her eyes before taking off to the twins' bedroom.

The front door exploded. A phantom with ruby eyes and malicious intent had entered their household.

"Get out of this house!" James shouted, sounding braver then he felt, shifting into battle stance.

Voldemort regarded him passively, almost lethargically. "Not likely, Potter. Not until your family is dead."

"Over my dead body!" James cried as he shot a powerful stunning curse towards the Dark Lord. It dissipated before it came within a meter of him.

"I thought that was understood," Voldermort commented airily, a malevolent mockery of a smile forming on his serpentine face. "Maybe I should kill you last, Potter, make you suffer some more… obtain information my incompetent spies cannot… yes, I will kill you last, a dramatic death for a foolish hero…would you rather be found whole, Potter, or in pieces?"

James could see that Voldemort meant every word he said and his being filled with horror.

The dark spell came so fast that James did not have time to think before it hit him and he was plunged into a world of torture and nightmares.

"I'll deal with you later." Voldemort said as he strode past the writhing body towards the nursery.

Lily was still there, clutching her baby to her chest and frantically trying to get a portkey to activate. _It wasn't working._

When she saw him approach, she sobbed loudly and shakily placed her son in the crib, using her body to shield him.

"Stand aside, mudblood." Voldemort ordered her.

"No, not Chris, take me! _Take me instead_!" she wept bitterly, hands fumbling her wand.

The sight was pathetic.

"Stand aside, you foolish girl!" Voldemort repeated harshly.

"Anyone but Chris!" Lily wailed, wand forgotten, mindless of all other things except the primal instinct to protect her baby.

Her cries awakened her other child, Harry, who had been forgotten in the rush.

"What's this?" Voldemort regarded the other cot curiously. "The other child is _here_?" He remembered the Potter yelling to his wife about taking a child, one child. And now Lily Potter was protecting _one_ child.

"No, not Harry!" Lily cried with dismay. She had only just realized about her other son, the other son who had not been in so much danger as his brother… _until the monster had come here_.

Now Harry was just as likely to be taken away from her as Chris.

Voldemort sneered. "Make a choice then, which of the boys would I kill _first_?"

Lily was in total hysteria now, sobbing and crying. Her mind was reeling. The evil man before her had given her the worst decision she ever had to make. She loved her sons…_but_ Chris had to live… in the greater scheme of things, her mind realized just that much, Chris was more important… Chris was _hope_… _I'm so sorry, Harry_…

"Anyone but Chris!" she cried harder, feeling like the most rotten mother in the world. She had sentenced her own son to his death.

As if understanding, little Harry bawled suddenly, his pained cries echoing across the room.

If not for the situation, Lily would have been shocked. Harry almost never cried; he only sniveled once when Chris had accidentally pushed him off their bed.

"I'm surprised,_ mudblood_. You act so noble and so _light_. But everything I see here tonight shows how hypocritical you are." Voldemort said, enjoying the woman's anguish. "_You killed your own son._"

Lily's legs gave out at his statement and she fell to the floor, unconscious. Her hands, which were gripping the crib so tightly, slackened.

Harry was crying worse than ever now, as if knowing his fate, as if knowing his whole family's fate. Chris was still asleep, unaware of what was happening.

Voldemort regarded the entire scene with disgust.

He stalked closer to Harry's crib, the infant's cries grating on his ears (_he had always hated the wailing of the brats at the orphanage… how he wished to silence them... smothering the ruddy faces with a pillow…_).

The baby became quiet all of a sudden, peering at the stranger over his bed. Voldemort suppressed a shiver as those expressive green eyes surveyed him, almost seeing into the depths of his broken soul.

"You would have been a fine wizard, I'm sure, a _worthy_ one." Voldemort said suddenly; the impulse had been too much. "But you have to pay for your parent's foolishness." He lifted the baby by the scuff of its shirt.

"Don't worry, you won't go alone." He crooned mockingly. "Your whole family will soon be up there with you." Voldemort had no intention of sparing the rest of the Potters, _of course not_.

The child peered at him with what Voldemort imagined was resigned acceptance. There was understanding but not fear. _No fear at all_.

_How odd._

Voldemort was getting disgruntled so he quickly whipped out his wand and stabbed it lightly on the boy's forehead, leaving a mark. This boy, _this peculiar baby_, was going to die painlessly. "Time to go, baby Potter. _Avada Kedavra_!"

Voldemort stood so shell-shocked when the spell hit Harry's forehead and rebounded like a light off a mirror that he reacted too late. His own spell had hit him. He let out an unearthly scream as his soul was ripped out and his body burned and disintegrated to ashes. Still feeling a terrible magic working against him, he fled into the night, cursing and vowing vengeance.

The room began shaking and burning and the roof falling in. Rain poured into the nursery.

Harry levitated himself to his brother and mother; his magic was unintentionally protecting them all. When the curse finally stopped, Harry's magic drained itself into shielding the lightning bolt scar from the killing curse, leaving behind an unmarked forehead. He fell down in exhaustion.

A small piece of wood fell from the destroyed roof and hit Chris on the forehead. A jagged scar appeared and Chris wailed.

This was how Dumbledore found them later: a ruin of a house and Lily, James and Harry unconscious and Chris sporting the scar on his forehead. All of them reeking of dark magic.

Chris was alive and Voldemort was _gone_. _Gone_. _GONE!_

The wizarding world rejoiced. Although a long clean up was ahead of them, the war was _over_.

Within a couple of days, Peter Pettigrew was captured, tried as a traitor and sent to Azkaban, where he died a year later – whether by suicide or at the hands (literally) of his former comrades, it was not known. His former friends never even looked at his body.

Thus, Dumbledore's prediction was assumed true.

_Chris Potter was hailed everywhere as the Boy-who-Lived and Defeater of Voldemort._

* * *

End Chapter Two.


	3. Repost: Growing Up

**Notes**: I wonder how far I can take this reposting thing. My younger self scares the hell out of me with all that angst.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

* * *

**Growing Up**

* * *

Harry Potter was in a cramped closet, laughingly called _his bedroom_.

Ever since the attack, Lily and James ceased the pretense and, like most of the wizarding world, showed favoritism outright.

Something in them had snapped, _surely_, for the sheer amount of fanatical devotion they showered upon their son.

Chris reveled in all the attention, savoring it, flaunting it, brandishing it like a weapon. He grew up very spoiled and very pampered. If anyone ever faintly hinted how obnoxious it was getting (like the Malfoys did, _pot meet kettle_), James and Lily immediately rose to his defense.

Everyone who knew them had probably heard over ten times the story of how Chris must be treated well and allowed to thrive for when the Dark Lord would rise again.

Dumbledore's own blatant partiality did _not _help. The old man adored the boy, always taking the time to see Chris despite his numerous duties, always bringing him little treats, always telling him stories from Beadle the Bard.

* * *

Harry, on the other hand, was sorely neglected no matter how hard he tried to impress them.

They hadn't noticed how he'd always managed to figure out Dumbledore's little tricks, how he'd finished reading all the books they bought his brother without a problem, how he'd always _always_work so hard to please them.

He couldn't understand why his parents acted like he wasn't there at all.

_No,_ he amended sadly, _only when they think something's my fault…_

Despite being a smart child, Harry was very confused by the circumstances he found himself in. _Why did his parents act like that? Did his parents hate him?_

A tear escaped his eye when he remembered their recent sixth birthday (_he swiped angrily at it_).

A party had been given, complete with delicious food and festive decorations and dozens of guests. It was for Chris _only_. _He_ had received wonderful gifts like toy broomsticks and candies while _Harry_ received nothing. Nobody except the _elves_ greeted him a happy birthday.

Harry, being almost used to the treatment, could have accepted it… except… except…

It was the practice _wand_ that Albus Dumbledore had given Chris that truly affected him.

_A practice wand_. It was a child's dream come true. Harry felt so much longing at he looked at it, a longing so deep and so unexpected that it tore at his soul not to have it for himself.

But _Chris_ had waved it around, making a number of red and yellow sparks appear to everyone's applause and amusement.

_Sparks! _Harry almost bristled in indignation. _He_ could do so much better than _sparks_.

That was another thing that bothered Harry.

For as long as he could remember, his brother had always been encouraged (_heck, even trained_) to do magic, unlike most children including himself. His parents always talked about how powerful Chris was, how much more he was going to be in the future once he got into Hogwarts and Gryffindor.

Deep in his heart, Harry _knew _he was better than Chris. _Chris,_ who was only interested in games and Quidditch and tricks, was terrible at learning magic.

_Harry_, who read books and scrolls of parchment and shut himself in the library for days at a time and observed and observed and observed, was supposedly his _inferior_ in magic. _Harry_, who was a quick learner and who understood everything shoved to him almost instantly, was never even spared a minute.

He knew dozens of grown wizards and witches, all very skilled in their fields, all of them never showing an interest in teaching him magic.

_Why won't they let me do magic? I am better than my brother. I'm _sure_ I am._

His little hands fisted unconsciously, his fingernails leaving little red crescent marks on his palms.

The childish envy that crept into Harry's innocent heart was turning into a very ugly jealousy.

* * *

Another event flashed into Harry's mind (_and like a flood they came_).

He was playing with a large red ball that a house-elf found in the attic, having fun for the first time in days. Chris and Lily came along and saw him.

"Mum, I want to play too!" Chris tugged at his mother's arm, grinning brightly.

"Harry, let Chris play with you." Lily asked, eyes gently imploring.

"I want to play alone, Mommy!" Chris protested, his grin dropped.

Lily frowned. Harry usually wasn't playful; he would just sit among books and just read to his heart's content. It was rather _nice_ to see him doing other things.

"Chris dear…you brother also wants to…" She started.

"_No_! I want to play _alone_!" Chris was dangerously close to throwing a tantrum, shedding big, wet alligator tears.

Lily couldn't find it in her heart to scold him. Instead she sighed and took away Harry's ball. He stared at her, devastated (_a first of many betrayals_).

"It's Chris' turn to play, Harry." She said, apologizing, kissing her other son on the forehead. It felt cold and meaningless (_it always had_).

From the window, he saw Chris chuck the ball away after five minutes of playing. Something like a stone dropped on his heart.

_Why do you love him more? Do I not deserve your love too? Why?!_

The jealousy turned into resentment. _Bitter, vicious resentment._

* * *

Another scene unwrapped in his mind (_and this was a straw that broke a camel's back_).

Lily was teaching Chris a very simple _junior_ charm, levitation.

"Like this, love, swish and flick!" The red-haired woman demonstrated, laughing lightly, twirling a number of trinkets around the room. "And you say _Levi!_"

Chris repeated the spell, fumbling through the movements (_too shaky a swish, a flick too much like a jab_). Although nothing happened, Lily beamed.

James, who strode in and just barely dodged a flying vase, laughed and ruffled Chris' already unruly hair. "That's my son."

They never even noticed the other boy watching from the other side of the room, brilliant green eyes drinking in everything from behind a thick tome.

Harry muttered the spell under his breath and the knut Chris had been practicing with jumped a foot.

Chris saw it first and yelled excitedly, "Look, Mum! I did it! I did it!"

Lily grinned broadly and hugged her son to her chest. James hugged the two of them.

_The perfect Potter family picture, _Harry thought sullenly, feeling very much his status as a black sheep. _Chris didn't do that! He couldn't do that! I did!_

"Mommy, Daddy, I made the coin fly, not Chris…" Harry said keenly, trying for the last time to impress his parents. He smiled up at the two of them expectantly, pinning all his hope on this last chance.

_Really, what did he expect?_

James and Lily looked at each other.

"It's wrong to lie, Harry. You wouldn't have been to make anything fly. You're a squib; you can't do magic." Lily reprimanded.

Harry's face fell (_whether in disappointment or in shock, he didn't know_).

"But I _can_. I can, even better than Chris…" Harry said hesitatingly (_something was breaking_).

"Dad! He said he's better than _me_! Is that true, Daddy?" Chris cried out, lip quivering, putting on his poor-little-me act.

_That did it. _Harry scowled darkly over at him. James caught it.

"Harry, go to your room! It's rude to lie AND talk back to your betters. No supper!" James ordered angrily. Lily silently nodded agreement.

Before he left Harry saw Chris had a smug smile on his face that was just begging to be cursed off.

_Levi_!

The knut smacked Chris right on the forehead.

* * *

Harry fell back on his tiny bed, eyes burning at the memory from an hour before (_something big was breaking_).

_No, I must not cry. I am strong! No matter what they say._

He rubbed his eyes angrily and glared at the darkness above him.

_I will show them. I will be greater than every one of them! And they will _pay_ for saying that I can't do magic! That I was weak!_

_Weak! _How he loathed that word (_and all it spoke of_).

Harry's stomach rumbled. He was hungry (_something as big as a bridge was breaking_).

_I will not be weak! I will not be like the Potters, not like Dumbledore! I will be feared. I will be merciless. People will never look at me with disgust or pity or contempt. I will be the greatest wizard in the world… then I will raze it all to the ground._

_Weak? What a joke._

Unknowingly, Harry Potter's once pure heart was poisoned with cold, hard _HATE._

Hate for his brother, hate for his parents, hate for their friends, hate for the Light.

_(Like a crooning, comforting presence in his soul._)

(_Like a purpose_.)

(_Like a great destiny that called out for him_.)

Harry Potter was no ordinary child indeed.

From that moment on, redemption was nonexistent.

(_We all fall down._)

* * *

End Chapter Three.


	4. Repost: Abandoned

**Notes**: If I can't finish it, I might as well improve it. Warning – some of my Naruto tendencies might bleed out. I'm trying to stick as much to the original BL as possible but it's _hard_. Ah, and I'm assuming Harry has above average intelligence, just so I can make him sarcastic. Sarcasm takes _genius_.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Harry Potter. I only own copies of the books. Right wonderful copies they are too. (Ah, what a cute disclaimer. I forgot I did things like this.)

* * *

**Abandoned**

* * *

The morning after his world shifted perspective, Harry got out of bed as he normally did (_he might have faltered. On young shoulders, hatred and destiny were great burdens_). Cold and empty eyes looked over his surroundings impassively.

_Bedroom? Call it for what it is, you hypocrites. It's a closet._

* * *

Chris was already at the breakfast table eating a stack of pancakes when Harry arrived.

Harry smirked as he took his usual seat._ That's not baby fat, brother. That's already paunch._

He was helping himself to a slice of grapefruit when Dumbledore, as frantic as Harry had ever seen him, popped his head out the fireplace.

"Lily! James! Meeting! Hurry!" He said quickly before disappearing, flashing through fires faster than his age should have allowed and ruining people's breakfasts.

Lily and James, face pale, hurriedly summoned their cloaks and warded the house. There hasn't been an _Order_ meeting for long time. Something was up (_worst case, that something was the Dark Lord_).

Before they took off, Lily and James hugged Chris.

"Be careful, sweetie. You know where the portkey is un case something happens." Lily said in a whisper.

Harry could hear it nonetheless and he raised an eyebrow. _And what was _I_ supposed to do?_

* * *

I wasn't until evening that their parents returned, pale-faced and distraught.

James hurried threw his cloak off and headed to the pantry to take a swig from a bottle of firewhiskey. Lily just came up to Chris and hugged him silently, her green eyes wide in fear.

"Mum, what happened?" Chris asked, noticing his parent's uncharacteristic behavior.

Lily sobbed in anguish, burying her face in her son's hair the same shade as her own and smelled his little boy smell to get some degree of comfort.

"H-he's b-back…He's back…" She whimpered, remembering the terror of that Halloween night a long time ago and the near endless nightmares that followed.

Ever oblivious, Chris looked dumbly at his parents.

"Not now, C-Chris, please… Come on… we'll take you to bed." James picked him up and Lily followed. They tucked Chris in (_such is the treatment of heroes_). "Sleep for now, my beloved angel." (_Angel, huh? That's new. Will you call him God next?_)

They returned to the sitting room. Harry silently followed, hands over his mouth to stifle the sound of his breathing, and listened breathlessly as he pieced together a rough sketch of what happened from their stilted conversation.

Bartermius Crouch Jr., a Death Eater assumed dead and rotting in Azkaban, had suddenly resurfaced, escaping the clutches of his shamed (and also recently dead) father and his elf.

Crouch had somehow managed to glean enough resources and information to find his master's whereabouts, information that had been eluding Aurors for years.

A sacrifice had been performed to restore the Dark Lord's soul to a body. Three months of brewing, bone of filial origin, flesh of devoted, blood of hated, a brutal assault on a famous Auror pair, a dark night and a cemetery – the Dark Lord had returned.

And all the Order had to prove it were the putrid remains of the once great Longbottoms.

_Lord Voldemort had returned. _How does that factor in?

"James, James… Chris is in danger. The Dark Lord will surely come after him." Lily said in a tone bridging on panic, jarring Harry from his thoughts.

"I know, Lily, I know…we have to go to Hogwarts. It's safe there." James said, pacing the room, only a bit more relaxed than his wife (_courage from the bottle, daddy dear_). "We have to start training Chris, he's the only one who can defeat him."

Harry growled furiously. _Again we come to this._

"Yes…" Lily agreed reluctantly. "My poor baby…so young and so heavy a burden..."

"We have to be strong for Chris, Lily. He needs us." James patted his wife's arm in comfort.

"What about Harry?" Lily remembered, hand flying to her open mouth.

"What can we do, Lily? We're on the brink of another war." James sighed tiredly. "I'm worried about him, too _quiet_, too _odd_…"

"And always so hard on his little brother," Lily nodded in disappointment.

_Excuse me?! _Harry almost coughed.

"He's jealous of Chris. Harry will always be in Chris' shadow, always _second best_. He'll resent Chris when they grow up…We can't have that, Lily." James spoke with resolve. "Chris has to grow up completely loved and cared for…He must not be allowed to doubt himself."

"But what do we do with Harry?" Lily queried. "We can't take him to Hogwarts with us. The school's dangerous…to squibs."

Harry gritted his teeth. _I am not a squib._

"Don't you have a muggle sister? Petunia?" James asked.

"She hates me, James. She won't take in the child." Lily shook her head, burying her face in her arms (_because Petunia was also second best too_).

"She can't refuse, Lils. He's _family_ and besides, he doesn't have any magic so she couldn't have anything against him. Come on, Lily, this is for our son." James pressed on until Lily finally gave in.

"First thing tomorrow morning," James insisted.

Harry, by this time, had worked himself into a righteous fury.

_Was he really so easy to wash hands off of? Was he that worthless in their eyes? Left to live with muggles?!_

He stalked to his closet. He need not have bothered.

Nobody checked anyway.

* * *

The next day, a sleepy Harry was being pulled out of his bed and thrust into muggle street clothes before he was fully awake.

His suitcase was all packed up with the meager things he had: clothes, socks, and a book... the few things that had been given to him once _Chris_ had used them. Not that Chris ever used the book for reading. (_Siblings, after all, should share._)

"Must you move so slowly?" James said irritably as Harry was still slouching lethargically. "No wonder you're so weak. You probably don't get any exercise at all, don't you?"

Harry just yawned in defiance, having tuned out his father long before.

(_As if being a brat is enough. No, not enough, but must start somewhere._)

Lily was waiting in the living room, still in her nightclothes. She and James put on their cloaks and Harry pulled on his (_very old, muggle_) jacket.

They held Harry between them and apparated away, but only after instructing the house-elves to protect Chris even if it cost them their life (_piteous beings_).

Harry was awakened fully at the sensation of traveling through time-space and an icy blast of wind brushing his face.

_Number 4 Privet Drive_ was an ordinary muggle house, with showy pretty paint slopped over it and a meticulously-manicured lawn. The sun was slowly rising and illuminating the place with dawn's orange light.

_It looked like hell_, with all its glamour and deceitful glory and probably inhabitants to match.

"Harry, you're going to be living with you Aunt and Uncle and cousin for a while, okay? Petunia is my _sister_; she'll take good care of you." Lily explained _slowly_, _real slowly_. "Do you understand?"

Harry just regarded her with large emerald eyes. _So much like hers, but much more shadowed, much more Dark._

Lily involuntarily shivered and dismissed it as an effect of the morning chill.

James did not see those eyes. Impatiently, he snapped, eager to return to their other son, "Your mother asked if you understood what she said."

"I understand," Harry bit out while bowing his head to the ground, glaring at it with utmost rage.

"Good, we'll come back for you when the, um, _trouble_ is all settled. Try not to make so many problems for your aunt." Lily said, almost relieved by Harry's acceptance (_because guilt is an unfamiliar emotion to Lily Potter and anything to make is go away is welcome_).

Harry, knowing that it'll be a long time, even forever, before they come for him asked "Can you leave me some money before you leave?"

"No," Lily and James declined. "You won't have any use for wizard money in this world. And Chris may need the money… "

Harry nodded, wondering why he even asked in the first place. He didn't really expect a different answer. _Chris needs it…Ha! Probably for more sweets to fatten himself up so he just drop himself on Voldemort and flatten him. You've got millions in your vault but you can't spare even a few knuts for your other son._

_You could've said it was for the war effort or something. I could've respected that at least._

"Well, if that's that. You just wait here until someone opens the door, Harry. Don't wake them up just yet; they _won't_ appreciate it. Take care of yourself." They said that and left without another word…or hug goodbye.

Harry blinked. He had just been abandoned by his parents.

_Harry Potter was dead to the Wizarding World._

* * *

End Chapter Four.


	5. Repost: Street Rat

**Notes: **Dismissal of reality is so much harder now (groans and bangs head against laptop). This is frustrating.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Warnings: **Language, I suppose. I have no qualms writing distasteful words now.

* * *

**Street Rat**

* * *

From the time the Potter's abandoned him on his relatives' doorstep, Harry Potter ceased to be a child and instead became a ball of pent-up hate and anger (_and suffering_).

The Dursley's, his _family_, had taken one look at the dark-haired little _runt_ and shuddered. With fear and disgust in their hearts, they took him under their roof and made sure he never forgot it.

He was treated as less than a house-elf, made to do all the chores, _all the dirty little chores_, without fail. He scrubbed, gardened, polished, weeded, mopped, cleaned, cooked until his muscles burned and ached and his eyelids drooping in exhaustion.

It was never enough. They were never satisfied (_is this your revenge for being second-best, dear aunt?_).

He was starved and bullied and beaten (_pound the unnaturalness out of you_).

It was their only means of keeping him vulnerable, the trick of cowards to keep the strong under their thumb. Because he could see it in their eyes, no matter how they acted, _they were afraid of him_.

* * *

Vernon Dursley found solace in the bottle and false courage in spirits.

He found glee in blaming others for his own shortcomings.

Even since the boy descended on his home (_like a plague_), he'd been a victim of an endless string of bad luck (_self-inflicted but it doesn't matter_) – laid off by his company, humiliated in front of his peers, losing face in polite society…

His face turned purple whenever the thought crossed his mind (_purple goes well with the red of drunkenness_).

Instead of sobering up and taking life like the well-adjusted man he wasn't, however, he sank into a fuming aggression that was just waiting to be let out. God have mercy on anything that crossed his path.

Harry became a very convenient outlet, with his shadowy smirks and disdainful eyes and peculiar presence that he didn't bother to hide, for the rage that consumed Vernon Dursley.

He no longer cared what those freaks might do to him _As long as he did it to the boy first._

* * *

Petunia Dursley hated Lily Potter. No remnants of the sisterly bond they used to share remained in her to grant to the boy. She looks at Harry and sees a tainted, burned and broken Lily, a mocking grin on her distorted face, hellfire in her eyes. A sister she was so jealous of, a sister she was so angry at. A demon from the past that must be punished.

Everything would be Harry's fault. Dudley's broken toys. A speck of dust on the windowsill. Vernon's increasingly violent temper. The cobwebs in the shelves. Petunia's bitterness and hatred and whole damn life.

Because Harry was Lily's son. (And Lily had been Petunia's downfall.)

She will not bat an eyebrow the whip cracks sound out. She will not intervene when pour will start to pour out from the gashes (_not when he looks at her like that and blames her_). She will shriek encouragement at her husband.

Because this is the only way she could possibly hurt her once-sister.

* * *

Dudley Dursley was a stupid spoiled whale-of-a-boy who terrorized those weaker than him and hid behind his parents (_piggy eyes gleaming in his false illusion of power_).

He liked using Harry to demonstrate how strong he was (_even as the pale, skinny green-eyed kid glared murder at him behind his back_).The kids never told after they saw what he did to Harry.

Dudley had everything he wanted. He was everything he wanted, perfect, without fault, promising (_the depths of human delusion_). He grew up thinking that hurting people was fine, and never learned otherwise. His cousin was his to play with, his parents said._ And so Dudley Dursley did play._

* * *

Eighteen months. That's how long it was been since he was left with the Dursleys. Eighteen months of letting himself bend to show that he wouldn't break. He had the scars and the bruises to prove it.

The Dursley's were truly kin to the Potter's.

Harry mourned the passing of his former face, despite its resemblance to his fathers. As least it hadn't been so skeletal and gaunt and unkempt (_he might've as well been a skull_).

His mind had changed even more (_like a volcano waking up from a long sleep, an inferno waiting to happen_).

Bitterness rose like bile in his throat as he started on another of the infinite chores he was supposed to do, his fingers curling into claws.

(_Massacre. Slaughter. Butchery._) His mind chanted.

If he didn't escape soon, he was going to be guilty of all three.

(But escape, much like fate except that it didn't screw you over, chances upon you like a bolt from the blue.)

His unexpected passport to freedom was Aunt Marge, whom he'd never seen hair or hide of (_and met, regretfully, only a few seconds before her gruesome death_).

Vernon was convinced that Harry would freak her out.

And so, seven-year old Harry Potter was abandoned in the slums of London.

_It was all some kind of twisted déjà vu._

The London streets were no place for ordinary young children. Apart from natural hazards, all sorts of criminals (_thieves, muggers, and the worst scum of the earth_) roamed.

_But again, Harry Potter was no ordinary child._

* * *

It was a hazy, rainy Saturday morning when Harry was bodily thrown out into the streets without any more than the clothes on his back while the Dursley's sped off to the train station.

Harry stood there in the cold rain for a while, realizing what a world of difference this grant of freedom made. His extremely ragged and loose clothes were getting soaked and so he ran to the nearest awning and stayed there until the rain let up (_ignoring the dirty looks of the proprietor_).

His mind was already making plans, and contingency plans, and plans-within-plans.

How to survive, how to get by, how to _thrive_.

He felt like a fucking dandelion in spring.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Harry roamed the London alleyways, managing to steer clear of authorities and social workers by sheer cunning. There were 'safe' areas where he slept, always changing in an unpredictable pattern and with one eye open.

He fed himself through a staggering resourcefulness – scavenging, conning, stealing. The last of which he found to be a challenge and a delight.

Bulging pockets, purses, handbags, expensive leather pocketbooks – it made no difference to him. He got them all just as easily, thanks to his startling agility, ability to blend into the crowd and well-developed familiarity with the streets.

The taking of another's property made him croon in pleasure (_like an omen, of the greater thefts he will commit_).

_Because they do not deserve it. All these things, all this gifts, the worthless people do not deserve it. (No one deserves it.)_

He kept the money and dumped the rest.

* * *

That is not to say his life was getting any better. He had only very narrowly (_a hair's breadth_) escaped detection a number of times, and was starting to attract a little too much attention. The gangs of delinquents had started approaching him and he'd snarled back at them.

_Damn if he was trusting anyone now_.

They were bigger, in size and in number, and could've overwhelmed him easily (_if not for the freak accidents that always befell them_). Harry's reputation mounted as his territory grew, a notoriously skillful thief, a fierce grappler, in single man (_boy_) in a land of flocks.

He rather liked having a status (_only a first in a long line of titles_), even a weak insignificant one, even one only recognized by the dregs of human society.

He had a turf. Something to rule as his own.

He _really_ liked it.

* * *

After a particularly bad (_and must thus have been destined_) undertaking, his life as a street rat ended abruptly (_on to new heights!_).

He had only been doing the usual rounds when a wealthy-looking man stepped out of a pub (_one that seemed to flicker in and out of existence, the Leaky Cauldron_), early thirties, pale blond hair and a cold scornful face.

That condescending face and aristocratic air made Harry immediately peg him as a target, if only to wipe off the arrogant smirk off. _Supercilious pig._

He snuck up silently behind the man, weaving gracefully through the crowd, carefully observing him through seemingly-disinterested eyes. Harry inwardly raised an eyebrow at the man's… _pouch._ A drawstring pouch.

How _queer_. Eccentricity was acceptable enough, this was… _downright stupid_.

His eyes widened a fraction. _Unless…_

He shook his head. _Too coincidental…_

Besides, money was money and the man reeked of it too much to pass up the opportunity. He casually slipped in too think fingers into the man's coat pocket and touched upon the pouch. He shifted and lifted the moneyholder clean out of the man's pocket.

He smirked. _Too easy._

He did not expect the sudden sharp tug at the back of his shirt nor the cold gray eyes as the man regarded him with revulsion.

He really should've known that when it comes to him, nothing was ever just a coincidence.

"I'll have my moneybag back, _muggle_," The man spat, a visible threat in his eyes.

Harry's fists clenched in response, fighting the primary instinct to run.

He sneered at the older man. "Fuck you, _wizard_."

He wriggled free of the aristocrat's grasp, taking advantage of the temporary shock his announced generated and took off like the wind, dodging irate pedestrians and taking a number of random turns.

He cursed as he remembered the teleporting abilities of most adult wizards and ran on.

Still panting slightly, Harry settled his small form behind some bins in a small alley to rest. He had (for once) absolutely no idea how far or how long he had run, knew only that he was _way_ out of his area.

Honestly, he wondered why he ran like that.

_There had been nothing to fear, _he reproached himself. _What could he have done? Return me to the Potters? Over my dead body._

Unknowingly, bitterness once again gnawed at his insides at the memories of his previous life (one that felt like it happened both only yesterday and a thousand years ago). _The weak b__rother of the so-called savior, the squib twin of the boy-who-lived… _

(_It wasn't a life. It was living death._)

Harry fell asleep behind the bins, unaware that his life would soon change forever.

* * *

_Same Alley. Around 10 o'clock._

* * *

Harry tensed, opening his eyes, as a car tires screeched to a hasty stop nearby. He could see the silhouettes of two men getting out, burly builds and irritated postures, angry works being whispered back and forth.

He hid himself deeper in the shadows.

"You sure this is the right place, Jacobs?" the taller shadow barked.

"Yes, Brooks, this is it." the one named Jacobs replied, using the glow of a nearly streetlamp to reexamine the contents of a slip of paper.

"Where the bloody hell is he then?" Brooks impatiently asked (_completely out of place in a shady location_).

"Expecting someone, gentlemen?" A deep, velvety voice answered from the darkness at the end of the alley.

"Who's there?" the first two asked simultaneously. "Bailey?"

"Bailey, the head honcho of a bunch of greedy bastard lawyers? Nope, he's not here." The voice answered sleekly. "He'll never walk here again (_not in this lifetime_)."

"He _said_ he'll be here," One of the two men, _lawyers_, snapped testily, his patience frayed. "We had a deal. Now show yourself!"

"Oh, he's never agreed to meet you." The figure stepped forward into the light of the streetlamp. He was in his late twenties and dressed in all black. "It was me all along. _I_ called you here."

"What the hell do you want?" they demanded, clearly angry at being called on a worthless meeting. "I can have you convicted for impersonation!"

"Jailed eh? That _really_ scares me." The figure remarked sarcastically before turning serious. "Do you remember Sancho Santelli?"

"That filthy criminal, of course, _we_ sent him to the death row." The lawyer's smirk was evident, if not on his face then in his voice. "He died crying innocence."

"Did he? I do not remember that." The man said in a glacial tone, dark blue eyed hardening. "My father died a proud and strong man."

The men's smiles evaporated fast. Their faces paled horribly.

"There is a _tradition_ in my family," The man continued conversationally, as if telling a story (_but really weaving a web of destruction. There is no escape_). "The son has to defend his father's honor. It would be _shameful_ for me to let you live. Vengeance, as you well know, is in our blood."

There was an ominous unmistakable click of an automatic being reloaded.

The two were immediately on their knees, groveling and stammering out everything from apologies to bribes to promises.

"_Pathetic_." That was all the man said as he pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed all over the place.

Harry watched the entire scene with grim eyes (_and just a hint of envy_).

He regarded the killer with a hint of admiration (_an emotion so rarely felt_).

_Such power. Such control._

_I will have that kind of power someday. Then I can have my vengeance._

_Those men died as cowards…my enemies will go the same way._

He leaned towards the man, trying to get some ID on him or at least some other clue...

His small movement caused the metal bins hit each other with a soft clang of metal.

The man was suddenly in front of him, glaring with deadly blue eyes.

"What are you doing here, _boy_?"

* * *

End Chapter Five.


	6. Repost: Damien Santelli

**Notes: **Ah, the Mary-Sue-ness begins. Now knowing how annoying it could be, yet still not wanting to change the general story, I wrote on and tried not to scratch my eyes off. It's funny, I can't really remember my characterization of Harry/Damien then. All I can see him as now is this psychotic creepy killer person.

I quote my younger self, "_Yeah, I know this chapter is awful, no need to tell me. The style is awkward, unrealistic, unbelievable, et cetera. I don't have any other alternative. Plus, I have no idea how to train an assassin._"

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

**Damien Santelli**

* * *

Niccolo Santelli replaced his gun into its holster as he warily watched the boy he hadn't noticed before. _It_ returned his stare with equal intensity, its body tensed, ready to fight (_the cornered enemy is the most dangerous one_). It looked so very young, perhaps not older than eight or nine.

"What are you doing here, boy?" He repeated, then smacked himself inwardly for asking such an obvious question. _Stupid, he probably lives here_. The boy's appearance certainly hinted as his, _er_, affinity with the streets. He was extremely thin, with long messy dark hair and fairly hostile, unnerving green eyes. He was one of those _street rats_, punk kids who roamed the streets, stupid and reckless and so fucking fearless.

_So confident of himself that he didn't flinch at the sight of me. Didn't even bat an eye after witnessing a couple of murders. _Damn, this was a kid he could respect.

"_Well_?" He hissed threateningly, wanting to see how far he could push the urchin, feeling rather like a bully.

"I was running away." The boy's face shuttered as he answered in a dull voice.

"Did you see what happened?" Niccolo asked, wishing to divert the boy's attention as he drew out his gun again. He didn't need any eyewitnesses to this. _The boy was just unlucky_.

"Obviously," There was a hint of a sneer in that voice. The scamp was looking at the gun, so much for distraction (_it would have been a mercy_).

"Aren't you afraid?" Niccolo asked, amused and bothered at the same time.

"No, there are worse things." Harry said simply, almost shrugging. _Besides, I don't think you would kill me._ "Why didn't you kill me yet?"

There were few things in the world that could surprise Niccolo. He frowned.

"You intrigue me," He answered, knowing it was the truth. "What are you running from? Cops?"

"None of your business," was the curt reply.

"Is that what they teach you at home? To be rude?" He remarked, amused.

Bitterly: "I have no home."

"Orphan then?"

"I wish," Harry growled. "Why all these questions?"

"'Cause a normal kid would've been scared silly. You talk to me like you didn't just see me blow a couple of brains out." He smirked. "I like you, kid."

Harry looked straight at the man, studying him closely for the first time, then violently recoiled.

_Liar! Liar! Liar! _No one ever _liked _him. They _feared _him. They _respected _him. They _tolerated _him.

They didn't _like_ him! He practically had a sign on his head that warned people off (_like signs on active volcanoes and nuclear reactors_).

"Okay, I don't really like you… _yet_." Niccolo backtracked, seeing the rebellion erupting in those green eyes. "But I really think I will."

Harry remained silent (_was this hope? this crushing feeling in the chest…_).

"What's your name?" Niccolo asked again.

"I don't have a name," He muttered darkly. "Not the name they gave me (_a revolting name of a dead grandfather who loved his other grandson best_)."

Niccolo nodded in sudden, stark understanding. He let out a low whistle. _The kid was more like him than he thought._

His own parents had been abusive of him to the point when he'd wanted nothing to do with them. He had rejected his own name too, and took up that of the man who'd picked him off the streets, protected and raised him as his own son and heir. Sancho Santelli, a mob boss who'd been so recently avenged.

"You want a name?" He asked, for once blindsiding the younger boy. "Damien. You're Damien Santelli. You're going to be my son."

"What the _bloody hell_ are you talking about?" The boy cried wrathfully, eyes blazing, heart pounding at the sudden _want _to accept the offer. "You think I'm some kind of _fool_?!"

Niccolo back off, hands waving in appeasing gestures.

"Call it crazy, but I think it's _meant to be_," They both flinched at his choice of words. "I really can't say I understand you, kid, but I've had my own _problems_ with my _parents_." His tone was a shade darker before lightening up again. "Someone saved me. Now I'm gonna save you. It's called passing the favor, great chain of being, and all that shit."

A deathly silence (_except for the sound of resolve breaking_).

"I could stick with you for a while." Harry finally said (_do not dare to raise your hopes_). "I don't trust you though."

"Call me Niccolo, or whatever," He grinned. "I have connections – the adoption'll be over in no time. You're stuck with me, kid. Welcome to my world."

There was a long pause. "Call me Damien." (_a name he actually liked_)

They left the alley together, leaving no traces.

And with that, Harry Potter's last connection to his past was terminated. He was officially gone.

* * *

_Incindentally, Brooks and Jacobs were the final victims in a killing spree exterminating all the players involved in the Santelli case. No clues were found; No killer was caught._

* * *

It had been a couple of years since Niccolo first introduced his adopted son into the faction, his own group of men whose loyalty was proven time and again and whose skills were most definitely noteworthy.

They weren't _mafia_, technically. They had very limited interest in the more prevalent activities in the underworld – the drug trade, the brothels, the loan sharking, the betting parlors, none of _that_. Rather, they focused on the dirtiest deed in the underworld: troubleshooting.

That is, assassination (_guns, knife, rope, poison, hit-and-runs, bombings_).

His assassins were extremely cagey around the little boy at first – and more than one time Niccolo had been forced to bring up the question of _loyalty_ – but eventually, they adapted.

Niccolo kept tabs on Damien's behavior, a bit wary himself (_paranoia is a lifestyle_), hoping that the boy would never give him cause to eliminate him. The journal he kept for that purpose, in time, instead became a record of Damien's progress as his heir (_a bloody inheritance_).

* * *

_September 1987_

_The little punk – Damien – doesn't trust anyone. Even me, damnit! What an ingrate. Keeps mostly to himself and reads practically anything he can get his hands on – books, newspapers, receipts, tickets, everything. Very intelligent and resourceful , already proved that he could take care of himself – the men think that if he's trustworthy, we have our prodigy, our perfect new weapon.

* * *

_

_October 1987_

_Damien's running little errands now and training himself physically. The runt is too thin to be of any use for tasks that need muscle but he moves very swiftly and smoothly – great for stealth and spywork. Still a little bookworm, though he shows preference now. A little more open but still clams up whenever the past is brought up. The bitterness and rage is overwhelming once you get past the mean little façade. Will have to keep tabs on him, make sure he doesn't explode somewhere inconvenient.

* * *

_

_November 1987_

_Damien discovered what charisma is and is quite a charming little devil – he's got my men, a usually hardhearted bunch hanging on to him. Has them teaching him about our way of life. Been teaching him in stealth and info-gathering myself and saw that he has the potential to be better than me. Naturally graceful and lightning-fast reflexes, he lucked out genetics-wise._

_Real name: Harry Potter – no records._

_Note: find out if dreams of green lights and snakes mean anything.

* * *

_

_December 1987_

_Damien is annoyingly charming – a devious little snake is what he is. He has hardened hit men eating out of his hand. They don't even realize they're being played like fiddles and I'm not about to interfere. Not so skinny anymore, may actually start trusting me if I play this right. Trying not to pry too much into his past – I'm becoming nosy. He still talks of nightmares. Psychiatric tests show nothing – lies, there's no way he's not a sociopathic megalomaniac._

_Christmas was a blast. Literally.

* * *

_

_January 1988_

_The boys love him. I'm not sure what to make of this development. He's a true Santelli though – started work on blades and daggers – NO guns yet. I'm not that crazy. Thinking of getting him homeschooled – his response was a raised eyebrow, little jerk. Stopped complaining of nightmares._

_Talked about his family a little – they abandoned him.

* * *

_

_February 1988_

_Am starting to worry about my authority in this organization – sometimes it seems like the men would follow Damien instead of me. Stepped up the training – boys need muscles, no excuses. Proficient with daggers – a little to trigger-happy for guns though.

* * *

_

_March 1988_

_Took a trip around Europe for some business. He picks up languages quickly and we had to go around making him an interpreter, kinda embarrassing but we saved a lot of dough on it. Cunning little brat wants his cut. I'm proud of him. He almost feels like a true son now._

_Stepped up his errands. Had him help the technicians and poison-makers. Testing if he can protect himself from them. I pray I won't have to intervene.

* * *

_

_April 1988_

_Damien is actually exceedingly brave when the prize at stake is worth it. Can also be exceedingly loyal. I'm proud and rather relieved to say he's loyal to me. He'd make a dangerous enemy when he's older. Protected himself from the poisoners, even picked up some of their techniques._

_Really, I didn't expect anything less. The men are complaining I'm too hard on him. Hell, I think Damien's bored with it.

* * *

_

_May 1988_

_Damien is very ambitious and harbors great hatred for his enemies. It makes me think he was greatly slighted in a previous life and never got a chance for his revenge. We started him on guns and its causing me undue stress. He has terrific eyesight and accurate aim, perfect for shooting, but is rather brutal. Doesn't he realize how expensive bullets are?_

_I'm kinda worried about is emotional growth – wondering if he'll crack one day. Oh, scary though there. Still needs to develop social skills with people his own age – caught him scaring a couple of civilian kids.

* * *

_

_June 1988_

_Wizards exists. Magic exists. I'm flabbergasted. Damien told me all about it – hell, my minds reeling from this info. And the spells! Damien said he wasn't very good but I'm bloody impressed. Maybe it'll compliment his assassin training. Have to hide it though – the men don't know anything. Much as I trust them, I don't want pandemonium on my hands.

* * *

_

_July 1988_

_Damien turned nine today. Damn, such raw talent at such an age. Prodigy! Prodigy! He's taken to hanging out with children his age, especially Cecilia – my righthand's kid. I can almost see the hearts in that girl's eyes. Damien, you little ladykiller._

_I'm jealous of the magic he can use and the extra energy they seem to have._

_Are all wizard kids like this or is Damien just that special?

* * *

_

_August 1988_

_Damien acts like me. That is irrefutable proof that he sees me as a father figure. The Santelli tradition of being cool, suave and reserved will be passed on. He is officially my heir and protégé now._

_To commemorate, men took him to a shootout – escaped without a scratch. Didn't say how many he took down.

* * *

_

_September 1988_

_Damien's not much of a secret now – the men have large mouths when it comes to their prodigy. He hit the Dursleys this month – damn, it wasn't pretty. Must really teach Damien some moderation. I wanted a killer not a butcher. Caught a glimpse of the Potter's at the funeral. Had to knock some sense into him before they noticed the killing intent.

* * *

_

_October 1988_

_Damien is a professional with a few hits under his belt. Everyone wants a piece of the prodigy. I'm getting worried about his vindictiveness and general cruelty. He's charming all right, like the devil himself. I wish Sancho could have met him. He might have succeeded in teaching Damien some benevolence.

* * *

_

_November 1988_

_Damien remains on top. Bigger, pricier missions all with high levels of risk keep getting thrown his way. And he doesn't back down at all. Found that he could talk to snakes – and could convince them to kill for him.

* * *

_

_December 1988_

_Betrayal – it leaves a distasteful taste in my mouth. We were found out and we have to run._

_I am going to unleash Damien soon. God pity the poor world.

* * *

_

_January 1989_

_Damien, my son, remember the tradition._

* * *

Damien Santelli glared at the last entry on his father's journal. _Yes, father. The tradition will continue._

Only a few weeks ago, Niccolo had been successfully captured by an army of cops and agents helped by several former allies.

The sensational three-week trial finished with the verdict: _guilty_. Damien closed his eyes as he remembered that day, remembered the bribes and threats and barely-concealed corruption.

_Niccolo Santelli, you have been accused and found guilty of first-degree murder of…_

It had been a conspiracy against them. Someone had specifically targeted them. It was a plot, a sham, all meticulously planned to bring Niccolo down and steal his power and, more importantly, his prodigy, whose face and identity fortunately remained covered up.

The moment the verdict, lifetime imprisonment, was passed down, Damien knew his father wouldn't live to see the next day. Accidents happened all the time in prison.

It was all so cold-blooded in its efficiency.

_No one paid any attention to him, a seemingly insignificant child of a lesser member._

His green eyes passed over and memorize every face in that trial: the jury, the witnesses, the judge, the prosecutors, the big men behind the scenes…

Soon, they would be faces of dead people.

After all, accidents happened everywhere.

* * *

End Chapter Six.


	7. Repost: Carnage

**Notes: **Well, I don't think there's much I can do to salvage this chapter. Minor grammar edits and more grisly details.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

* * *

**Carnage**

* * *

_Tonight it rains blood._

* * *

Damien, at nine, had the blood of more than a dozen people on his hands.

A burning hate that consumed him from the inside and an icy shell that threatened to freeze anybody that came close.

Niccolo had broken through both with his fatherly affection and brutal honesty. He'd given Damien an environment to thrive in, taught him all the little tricks to incapacitate a man and, to a certain extent, allowed Damien to see the world through a different perspective.

With his adoptive father's death, all that hate burst like a supernova and left a massive gaping black hole that sucked everything in (_where emotions were lost to oblivion_).

His stone heart and what little humanity he had ceased to exist. There was no hate because there would be nothing to hate, there would be no grief, there would be no pain. Everything will be destroyed.

_Father, the world ends with you_.

* * *

He didn't cry at the funeral. No one expected him to.

He looked stonily on as various men and women came to pay their respects, playacting a meek silent little kid who didn't see the cracks of the world, already formulating plans with a ruthless clinical logic.

Niccolo's _capo _and dear friend, Marco, placed an arm on his shoulder (_who exactly was being comforted they weren't sure_).Marco, who'd been loyal to the very end, the closest thing to a comrade Damien had now.

(There was once a time he'd considered Marco family.)

"You gonna be okay, kid?" He asked. Damien nodded tersely, shrugging his shoulder away.

On the ride home, Marco brought up the subject everyone had been avoiding but must inevitably face. Money was still money and the business still needed to be done.

"Are you going to rise as leader, Damien? You have enough skill to garner people's respect. You have us for your muscle. We will _never_ betray you."

Damien smirked coldly. "_Never_ is a promise, Marco. And promises were made to be broken."

Marco shivered at the sudden chill in the air and the suddenly unrecognizable face of a boy he'd witnessed growing up and gaining power faster than anyone could ever imagine.

"I will not take over."

More than a few eyebrows rose. Coming from these men, all of them seasoned killers who'd long learned to keep physical reactions to a minimum, it was quite something.

"I'm _leaving_," Damien announced with finality. "You take over. Do well. Make my father proud."

He paused, staring them all down. "From this point onwards, I will not belong in your world, not anymore."

(_My destiny will be greater than this._)

They yielded.

The hidden message was there: _should you ever come back, we will always be loyal._

* * *

Damien slumped in exhaustion at a distant park that night, reminiscent of the years before.

The night was fairly quiet, if not for the hint of an approaching storm, and bitterly cold.

The air felt heavy and oppressive and more depressing than the funeral. Damien let out a breath, feeling quite empty.

There was a sense of mourning in the air around him – for Niccolo, who was undoubtedly is a cruel cruel place right now, who could have saved him from himself – and for him – the boy who would have been a savior in another universe.

He reclined on the bench, the smell of damp wood and grass and fog permeating his nostrils, lulling him into sleep.

The nightmares started again.

It was at the brink of midnight when the powers came, his powers by birthright (_a destiny that came in full swing_).

_The powers the Dark Lord knows not. _

It came earlier than it should have, fueled by the quiet desperation of a soul that had nothing else to lose.

The powers that had only been granted once before in History, where a similar little boy have been lost and wandering around in a temple, deserted by his parents. Damien wasn't like him (_of course not_).

The first one used it for the good of man (evidently), and Damien, well, the world rallied for balance, had done so throughout history, and it would be served thus.

It surged from the emptiness inside him and erupted like a long dormant volcano. Raw energy churned and crackled in the air, illuminating the dark night, reviving dead stars. It was greater than the power of any wizard ever to exist_. _Damien's body writhed and thrashed as spasms of power poured in hot electrical streams. It sealed itself within his blood and being.

With the power came knowledge. Knowledge, more addictive than any drug, more powerful than any spell, painted itself into his mind, pooling in the crevices – _memories, ideas, skills, revelations – _a slew of invisible weapons in his mind. Every aspect of magic, from the easiest to the most arcane, from the lightest to the darkest, was his to command, more than anything any wizard ever imagined.

Damien was lying on the ground – a thin, broken thing with the world in its grasp – by the time the last shred of magic was absorbed. He knew what he was from one of the memories: he was more than a wizard (much, much more)_ but less than a human._

(_Because being human meant you can still be saved._)

* * *

People, both muggle and magic, felt something change in the air that night. But only a few realized how big it was. One of them, an old muggle lady (unknowingly a descendant of the seer Cassandra) shivered as she gazed at the starless sky.

_It is a dawning of a new age, a new world. Heaven help us. _She crossed herself and went to sleep, dreaming of Armageddon.

* * *

Dumbledore never felt anything. Neither did Voldemort. Sybil Trelawney might have, but she was too busy making up a "death" predictions.

_You can never have too many,_ She giggled. (_Apparently you can't have too little common sense too._)

* * *

Perry West was working late in his office going over the blueprints of a new building. A cold gust of wind blew through his office making his hair stand on end. It was later that he realized that there were no windows in the room, he glanced around warily. Seeing nothing, he turned around…only to face the barrel of a revolver. He backed away from the man whose face was still too shadowy to be identified.

"Who are you?" West demanded, rather affronted of being held at gunpoint in his own office.

"I am no one," The voice was hard.

Perry was about to reply when he caught himself. The figure laughed mirthlessly as he stepped out of the shadows. The architect was caught unawares with his assaulter's appearance.

"Why, you're nothing but a _brat_! Give me that gun before you hurt yourself!" He ordered the boy.

"Am I?" The boy asked acidly. West flinched at the demonic aura of the boy, the air around him twisting like nightmares.

"What do you want from me?" the older man cried, floundering away in horror.

"_Revenge_," Damien said emotionlessly as he blew the man's brains out. He stepped into the shadows and the office was empty yet again except for the bloody corpse. The first juror was dead.

* * *

It was the start of a series of horrific murders, _the Santelli case once again_. No one who knew of the family tradition believed that young Niccolo could find an heir so quickly.

One so obviously powerful and bloodthirsty and struck with all the fierceness of a hurricane.

Frieda Collins, the second juror, was found in the park fountain, stabbed through the heart and drowned.

John Randall and Mark Hunter, also jurors, were hung in their apartments, on opposite sides of the county _in one night_.

Lisa Corbin died in a mysterious fire that killed her whole family. Arson was suspected but confused investigators found no evidence of gas or other possible fire causes (_of course not_).

Beatrice Gordon fell off a skyscraper. People just saw her walk dreamily over to the edge, face contorted in horror.

Robert Parker was missing. A mysterious chicken found at his house was dissected for investigation.

Ian Goldman was found piece by piece in a gruesome scavenger hunt (_Here's the clue to the next piece!_). He had been major witness to the Santelli case.

Alan Walt was crushed under his car _in his garage._

Janice Kaiser was affected with a mysterious disease and died horribly. Post-mortem examination showed no sign of infection.

Anna Miles committed suicide in spite of an excellent life. No evidence proved otherwise.

Atty. Don Spencer froze to death, in his _heated_ bedroom.

Atty. Peter Andrade was poisoned. His blood had to be pumped out in massive black chunks with pieces of rotting innards and organs.

Judge Michael Slate was hit by lightning and electrocuted. He was the one of the two involved in the case who was recorded to have died by natural causes.

Danny Granger, the last surviving juror, died painlessly. His case remained unclosed like that of the Little Hangleton Riddles (_frightened to death, they said)._

* * *

Each death on the list felt like a stop on a countdown. With every life he took, emotion went back to him and he felt alive again (_filling the gap in his chest with other people's dreams_).

Newspapers across the country shouted out the story, referring several times to the earlier Santelli case, decrying the horrific methods of the murderers and lambasting the cruelty of the killings.

Again, no clues were found, no killers were sighted. (_Like a phantom, I take._)

_Marvelous, Damien, even I'm scared of you. _Marco thought as he and his family boarded a plane to the US.

(_As if distance will save you._)

Damien lived in underground London for two years as an assassin (p_opping lives like pills, a twisted addiction_). Only a handful of people knew how to contact him and they seldom ever called. He was feared and utterly respected though hardly anyone ever set eyes on him.

And anyone who did so before their time died.

_If only all of you could see me now, _Damien brooded. _If only._

Three days before his eleventh birthday, the Hogwarts letter arrived.

Damien smirked in irony. _See? I'm not a squib._

* * *

End Chapter Seven.


	8. Repost: The Wizards World

**Notes: **I apologize to anyone who feels slighted by this fic. I thank anyone who think it's good, despite its inherent heretical nature.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

**The Wizard's World**

* * *

He solemnly watched the owl fly off with his reply.

The message had been simple, just a short note saying that he was familiar with wizardry and had no need for any caretakers or financial assistance.

He glanced at the glass of the window, taking stock of his modified appearance. Longish jet-black hair, unremarkable dark eyes (_Avada kedavra green stood out too much too quickly_), pale skin, slight build – it would do.

He apparated a short distance from the Leaky Cauldron. Such trivial errands were inevitable. Much less troublesome than _not_ visiting and then having to deal with all the questions of where he got his supplies.

And he'd had to return eventually. No point in dragging it out.

And so Damien went back to the world he had a complex relationship with, the world he both needed and despised, the world that despised him in turn.

* * *

Diagon Alley had not changed much (_a left behind in times of rapid change_), save for the drastically heightened security. Hit squads were everywhere. Numerous aurors were posing as patrons.

It was all too easy to tell them apart from the normal shoppers – the jerkiness in their movements, the constant shifting of their eyes, the all-too-still silence.

Nonetheless, they were doing a decent job of making Diagon Alley still one of the safest places in the wizarding world, even at the peak of wartime.

(Although Voldemort had been disturbingly quiet out of late, biding his time in the shadows.)

Students of various ages were milling around, buying their required supplies and novelty items and treats.

First order of business: Money.

Damien strolled towards Gringotts, brushing quickly past the crowd. It would have been so much easier just nicking a moneypouch or two, except that he _needed_ to visit the vault anyway and begin making investments into a future empire.

The goblin at his service looked him over a long time before speaking in a rough guttural voice. "May I help you, _sir_?"

"Vault number one," Damien said softly, keeping his eyes on the goblin, his mind replaying memories of the brutal goblin wars. He spoke in gobbledegook.

The goblin fell over, eyes darting frantically and complexion paling to a shade of light vomit (_heh, lumpy green skin, lumpy lumpy lumpy_).

"_Th__at_ vault," Damien intoned, very deliberately conveying his impatience with all the staring and shaking. The goblin, ears well-honed to the tiny little nuances of wizard voices, gulped and nodded.

The number one vault had never been opened in his lifetime, not in his grandfather's lifetime, not _his_ grandfather's lifetime. It had lain closed for over a millennia, the stuff of legends, and was the very foundation of Gringotts. A wealth beyond imagining, more gold than you ever saw, mountains of jewels… the rumors surrounding it were countless.

"Do you have the _key_?" The goblin asked, wide eyes snapping to the boy's eyes, noticing for the first time the abundance of power just shimmering beneath the skin. Goblins had always gravitated toward power.

"No keys, only one rightful owner - anyone else would be vaporized on the spot." Damien said amusedly. The goblin nodded in frightful understanding.

He bowed very low for a creature from a race that had sworn retribution to wizards for centuries.

The vault was deep, so deep that Damien idly wondered if it was buried at the center of the earth.

And it held more than the rumors can say.

* * *

Far away, a giant man was taking a grubby little package from Vault 713.

* * *

Now armed with a bottomless pocket of gold, Damien entered the first in a long series of shops he would have to visit for the day.

_Madam Malkins' Robes for All Occassions._

"Hogwarts, dear?" She asked kindly, a moment after he entered, gesturing him to a place next to a boy.

(And here was another point history was made.)

The boy had a sharply elegant, if somewhat pointy, face with all the planes and angles and haughtiness that denoted generations of breeding. Slicked back silvery blond hair and stormy gray eyes.

_Malfoy_.

The very epitome of _pureblood_. Arrogant, self-important, shrewd and powerful.

_Wonderful to have as allies._

This boy had some nerve to so boldly appear here when the whole family was constantly under suspicion.

"Hogwarts, too?" He drawled to Damien, the tilt of his chin clearly intending to denote his superior status (_all the little tricks of pureblood politics, so amusing_).

"Yes," He answered in a bored tone, not even looking at the other boy, clearly _showing_ how unimportant he was to Damien. It was a risky move, meant to intrigue but could easily cross the line into insult.

The boy sneered (_still oblivious of the power of a pokerface_), but not venomously.

"Who are you anyway? I'm _Draco Malfoy_."

Damien glanced at him, uncaring. "Damien Santelli."

"Not a wizard name, isn't it?" Draco's sneering face turned into one of contemplation. "It sounds familiar though, like I've heard it somewhere."

"It's quite a famous name among muggles," Damien smirked silkily. _In the crime circles anyway._ "I'm far from muggleborn though."

"The serial killer," Draco whispered. "The one who _obviously_ used magic. The ministry had been falling over themselves trying to control that mess. They thought it was the Dark Lord… Father didn't say though…"

Damien sneered inwardly at how unguarded this boy was. And to think he was the Malfoy _heir_… Did he not even suspect that Damien might be a Ministry or Order spy? _How foolish._

_All the more easier to use._

"Your father, he's a death eater?" Damien asked in a low, even voice, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

Draco shrugged (_okay, maybe not so stupid but still too candidly open_).

"He chose the winning side. _The light will not win the war_." (Not on my watch.)

"And why is that?" Draco turned to him, slightly narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized the once-unremarkable boy beside him.

"A lot of reasons, actually. They're so _blind_ and _divided_ and full of foolish heroics and revolting sentiment. There carry the banner _hero_ but _there are no heroes in war_. All in all, they're just _weak_."

"Bravo," Draco smirked. "Good answer, Santelli."

Damien rolled his eyes, wondering if the blond even understood the depth of what he said.

_Although, honestly, that had been a little too much. _He was supposed to keep as low a profile as he could. He was not supposed to spout off rhetorics like that, even though it was far less exposing than showing his powers.

The _powers_ – he had stored them away, ready to be used at a second's notice. (All part of his master plan. _Tick_-_tock_ _tick_-_tock_ to eternity.)

* * *

Against all odds and intents, Draco and Damien found themselves doing their shopping together.

_Mind-boggling_.

The last destination was the most important, the wand shop _Ollivander's._

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy and Mr… Santelli," the old bent proprietor shuffled towards them and bowed low. "A pleasure to serve."

Both boys nodded in acknowledgement. The old man rose and began leading them past tall cabinets full of wands deeper into his shop.

"It seems like only yesterday your parents were here getting their first wands, Mr. Malfoy…" Ollivander said as they walked along.

"Yes, yes, get on with it…" Draco waved off the attempt in conversation.

"And you are finally getting _your_ wand, great one," Ollivander whispered in such a low whisper than only Damien could hear. "An honor, an honor… for one such as myself…"

The old man smiled a toothy smile as he respectfully gestured for both of them to stop following. He then disappeared into the very back of his shop.

"Here you are, Mr. Malfoy, beechwood and unicorn hair, 12 inches, bendy. A rather fine and arrogant unicorn it came from too, befitting of you." Draco ignored the veiled insult and took the wand. No sooner than it touched Draco's hand, silver sparks shot out of it.

Ollivander made a tiny noise of approval. He turned to the dark-haired boy.

"Rosewood and dragon heartstring, 10 inches, flexible," Damien took the wand and shook his head.

"Elm and phoenix feather, 11 inches, whippy," Damien made a face.

Around twenty-six wands later, and just before Malfoy could say a word of disdain, Ollivander finally brought the right one. The old man had gotten quite enthusiastic with every wrong attempt and his beady eyes glittering with determination (_I'll get you yet, my boy_).

"Holly and phoenix feather, 11 inches, powerful wand...and bloodthirsty." Damien took the wand and felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. _This is the wand_.

Damien nodded at Ollivander, who beamed.

The old man turned away to shelve the other wands, muttering as he worked.

"Curious…so very _curious_…"

"What's _curious_?" Draco asked, one eyebrow raised.

Ollivander peered at him, then shifted his gaze to the wand in Damien's hand.

"It is curious that Master Santelli should be destined for this wand when its brother… went to You-know-who… I had expected to sell this wand to someone else. But then again, the wand chooses the wizard… and you-know-who did great things with his wand. _Terrible_ but _Great_."

"_Rubbish_!" Draco suddenly snapped, suddenly edgy at the mention of the Dark Lord. "Come on, Santelli, let's get out of here!"

He pulled Damien out of the shop ("Just so you know, _Malfoy_" Damien growled, an implicit threat in his voice. "I do not take too _kindly_ to being dragged.").

Ollivander had refused payment (_What is galleons to me when I create the tool most important to a Wizard's existence?_).

* * *

"Crazy, that one is…" Draco sneered as soon as the shop was out of sight.

Damien nodded impassively. _Everyone is. Some just more so than others._

Draco was acting mighty guiltily, as if he'd just been caught with a hand in the cookie jar, and he was trying to cover the nervousness up with arrogance. It was a bit amusing to watch the Malfoy heir flounder.

"I think he was just putting you on," He said, his pointy little face tightening. "That _wand_ he was talking about – Father said _Potter _was most likely destined for that wand. It would be awfully dramatic and somehow appropriate for brother wands to go to fated enemies. _Fated_, what a joke, that stupid brat –"

_Just like you._

"– who always struts around as if he owns the place, fated to be able to defeat _Him_. It's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous things happen all the time," Damien commented offhandedly.

"This is _too_ ridiculous. I don't think he defeated _the Dark Lord_ at all. I think Dumbledore did something that night, that disgusting old fool…"

Damien didn't deign to comment, despite knowing the truth of what really happened that Halloween night. _What happened_ – only the most outrageous case of mistaken identity in history: Chris Potter being recognized as the Boy-Who-Lived.

It would be wretchedly amusing to see their faces when they found out the truth.

"Speak of the devil…" Draco grimaced as the boy they (_he_) were just talking about strutted into the parlor, followed by his parents, a Daily Prophet reporter and a throng of other people who perhaps wanted a bit of glory, no matter how reflected it may be.

Damien slowly turned around.

Chris hadn't changed a lot from the six-year-old child Damien knew. He still had messy red hair framing a slightly chubby face (Damien smirked, _he had been right_) and perky hazel eyes. He looked very much ordinary – _cute_, probably worth a second glance and a few cheek-pinches on a good day – but nothing really special. He exuded no aura about him at all (_the aura all great powerful men can't help but have and use and exploit_).

Lily and James looked the same, perhaps a little older, a little more tense, a little more tired. Lily fretted and fussed around her sun, staring at him like he was the sun for her earth and drinking in every little thing he did. It was only a bit creepy.

James bought Chris an enormous chocolate sundae from Fortsecue's and handed it to him with another compliment. A warning against obesity probably would have been more appropriate. Chris, meanwhile, was excitedly regaling his fans about his valiance and magnificence in a recent Quidditch game with the Weasley's.

Damien, in an extreme show of emotion, wanted to throw up just to spite his brother.

Perhaps his and Draco's combined gazes were enough to prick into Chris's dome of self-absorption for, while looking around the parlor, the boy's gaze zoomed in on them and glared back fiercely.

He walked over, a miserable sneer on his face that made him look constipated rather than contemptuous. Draco returned the sneer, only his came out more successful in its execution.

"What are you two looking at?" He asked suspiciously, pompously crossing his arms over his chest. Damien was a bit appalled by his 'brother's' carelessness. What kind of dumbass would openly show aggressions in public in a world at war? Even his blond companion knew when to draw his mouth shut.

But Damien didn't have to keep his mouth shut (_a perk that was his to abuse_). Now was as good a time as any to test the waters.

He faked a look of flabbergasted surprise and ignorance.

"Is this Chris Potter? I thought he would be more impressive." He sniffed in disappointment. "Oh well, you can't choose your heroes I guess." _Except you can._

Chris scowled, and that was enough to make Damien continue. "You think I should get an autograph?" He turned to Draco, very deliberately acting like the redhead wasn't there at all. "I might never get one once he's finished off."

Draco tried valiantly to keep a straight face.

Chris flushed an angry red to match his hair.

"_You_ – _you death eater_!" He yelled indignantly. Damien raised an eyebrow at that – going so far as to throw accusations without backup – it was almost too stupid for words. "How dare you talk to me like that! I'm the Boy-Who-Lived!"

_A meaningless title._

"That doesn't mean anything to me," Damien said in faux innocence. "So you lived. So what?"

Several people gasped. The Prophet reported was taking notes like crazy. Draco buried his face in his hands. _Stupid, stupid, stupid Santelli, _he chanted in his mind.

"Don't go off showing your ignorance, boy," Lily jeered, stalking closer to defend her beloved son. Her _surviving _son. The son she could _still _save. She felt she owed it to Harry to do everything in her power to make Chris happy, to be a better mother than she had been.

"What sort of hero hides behind his mother?" Damien asked the crowd in bewilderment, causing a slew of whispers to erupt. The childish smile was still on his face even as his eyes reflected cold, cruel disdain for the depths his biological mother had fallen to.

"Who's you friend, _Malfoy_?" Chris spat out the name, turning to glare at the blond boy.

Draco looked back with a dispassionate coldness. "You should ask him yourself, Potter. Or are you, somehow, afraid to?"

Chris gritted his teeth. "Who are you?"

"Now that's an interesting question, isn't it?" Damien smirked. "Look it up, _Potter_."

"Now see here, you wicked brat," James said threateningly, as quick as Lily to defend their son. "Stop acting so rude to Chris. I suppose you can't help being _jealous_, being death eater spawn."

Damien cracked up. "_Jealous_? _Death eater spawn? _Don't lump me in with him." He gestured to Draco, who scowled darkly. "Stop jumping to conclusions so hastily, Potter. It will (_had_) someday lead to your downfall."

* * *

"Did you want to have my family put under surveillance again, Santelli?" Draco groused angrily as soon as they pulled free from the crowd. "Perhaps you were aiming to have my father kill me because that's precisely what he's going to do when he sees the Prophet tomorrow. I should prepare my epitaph: _Here lies Draco, who befriended a reckless fool_?"

"I apologize," Damien murmured, a little distracted. He was a tad frustrated by how boorishly he had acted. "He got to me – he turned out worse than I imagined."

"Psh. I could have told you that if you asked." Draco growled, still irate. "You've met him before?"

"I've seen him," Damien shrugged noncommittally. "Of course, that was when I was still an impressionable child." He laughed humorlessly at the thought.

Draco thought he could feel spiders skittering down his spine.

"You're _peculiar_, Santelli." Draco rolled his eyes and huffed.

Several minutes later, they met Draco's father at Borgin and Burkes (_a dark shop with a dark history and a dark future_). Lucius Malfoy was undeniably a pureblood _boss_, Damien thought, all ice and power and pride and bigotry.

Damien smiled inwardly.

"Draco, where have you been?" The man asked sternly, not even turning to his son but instead casually perusing a stack of cursed items.

"Had a trifle encounter with a certain brat-who-lived, Father," Draco answered nonchalantly, as if he didn't just make enemies with the boy a half hour earlier.

"Have I not warned you not to associate with him?" Lucius was staring down his son now, cold hand gripping his cane. "I am most displeased by your behavior."

"It wasn't _my _fault, father. Santelli here has a bit of a loose tongue around Potter and challenged him a bit too many times."

Lucius turned his gaze to the dark-haired boy then back to his son. "I do not care to hear any excuses, Draco." Draco flinched.

Damien strolled gracefully towards them. "It really was my mistake, Mr. Malfoy." He said without falter. "I certainly did not expect to act so impulsive and stupid as I had but I _did_ and I take blame should it reflect badly on your son or on you."

"And what is your name, boy?" Lucius raised a silvery eyebrow. _Immaculate manners, perfect execution. A useful pawn if he turns out well._

"Santelli – Damien Santelli – of criminal fame in the muggle papers," Damien injected pride into his voice. "Not _muggleborn _– if that's what you're thinking. I was adopted when my family died in the first war against the light." _Against the LIGHT._ "I do not remember much beyond that. I suppose it is _possible_ that I'm actually muggleborn…" Damien grinned. "But I highly doubt it."

"Is that so?" Lucius asked reticently.

"Yes," Damien smirked. "I am too adept with magic to be muggleborn."

Lucius almost stated how there had been plenty of muggleborns who wielded magic masterfully enough but found himself grimacing in distaste at the words. _What a clever boy_. Damien nearly him contradicting the ideals he was fighting for.

"Very well then," Lucius let out a thin smile of satisfaction. "Come, Draco, let us go home."

_Yes, definitely useful. Master will have to be informed of a potential new recruit. I haven't seen such cleverness since… Severus._

Minutes after the Malfoys left, Damien disapparated.

* * *

One more month until start of term.

_Let the games begin._

* * *

End Chapter Eight. Well, that was hell for editing. I had to change so many things and without a Harry Potter book for reference too.


	9. Repost: Hogwarts

**New notes: **The old notes were hilarious. I'm keeping them. I remember this exam – yeah, totally failed it.

**Old notes: **Well, apparently, I lived through my finals. The worst irony of all is that it was ENGLISH that I failed. Sorry, I'm ravaging you all with my grievances. Anyway, thanks so much for the positive feedback (gush at reviews). I think this is a fairly nice chapter though a bit too slow-paced for my taste.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

**Hogwarts**

* * *

The train station was thankfully quite full when Damien apparated in, allowing to pass through without garnering any unwanted attention.

Ahead of him shone Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, in all its wonderful stone and cement glory. For being the passage to one of the busiest and most important transit lines in the wizarding world and passage to the greatest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world, it wasn't much to look at al all.

Trailing behind a large group of rather loud redheads, he went through the barrier.

Once on the other side, he immediately saw Draco by virtue of his tell-tale blond hair. The boy was standing with his parents and two other boys who flanked him like bodyguards. People were giving them a wide berth.

(If one would look closely, there was a certain division in the small area where people from both sides of the war were forced to occupy simultaneously. Mistrust hung heavy in the air.)

He caught Draco's eyes and waved offhandedly, making it obvious that he wasn't going to wait for the blond and his companions to board the train. He set about finding an empty compartment.

It didn't take him very long to find one. He settled himself comfortably inside it and waited.

_It would be so easy for dark wizards to blow up this train and put an end to an entire generation._ An anarchist part of him thought idly. _It was a wonderful target, the concentration of magical power in one vessel…_

He was jarred from his thoughts when a raucous cheer erupted from outside.

"Look! It's him! Chris Potter, the Boy Who Lived!" someone exclaimed.

"I can't believe we're going to school with him!"

Damien rolled his eyes. _Really._

Damien was in the middle of tuning out the flurry of comments made to stoke Chris' already overblown ego when someone opened the door to his compartment.

Draco's blond head popped in. The blond made a tiny sound of relief and strode into the space without waiting for an invitation.

"There you are, Santelli," The blond griped in annoyance. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Father wishes to speak to you before the train leaves."

"What does he want with me, Malfoy? He hardly knows me." Damien asked in a bored tone. _Good. Things were starting to ripple._

"Be that way then." Draco huffed, sitting himself as the train whistle blew. "You'll find that you can't escape the Malfoy influence. He will get to you sometime, sooner rather than later."

"I'm sure," Damien agreed, a lazy smiled playing on his lips.

* * *

"Father is very interested in you," Malfoy commented after a short, terse silence. He looked only a little jealous. Beside him, Crabbe and Goyle acted they hadn't heard (or more likely, hadn't understood) anything.

"I _am _a very interesting person," Damien nodded. "More interesting than Potter at least, even if I don't have blind followers like he does."

_He had followers with eyes wide open._

"Stupid Potter and his stupid fans," Draco sneered.

Ah, that one Crabbe and Goyle understood. They grunted in agreement.

"So – what House do you think you'll be in? I'm quite sure I'll be in Slytherin," Draco smirked, leaning back in his seat with grace born of aristocratic rearing. "I'll just _die _if I'm placed into another House – what a disgusting thought."

Damien narrowed his eyes. "Why would you ask something you most likely already know the answer to? Have you forgotten who you're talking with? I thought you were smarter than that, Malfoy."

The blond flushed in embarrassment. Damien had a point.

"I was just making conversation," He mumbled to himself.

* * *

"Anything off the cart, dears?" the plump witch vendor asked as she pushed the trolley laden with sweets and snacks past their compartment. Crabbe and Goyle stood up immediately and bought as much as they could carry (and, considering their size, that was _a lot_). Damien and Draco shook their heads slowly.

"I'm bored – I'm going to look around a bit." Damien announced as he rose and stretched like a cat, moving the muscles that had stiffened with all the sitting around.

"I'll come with," Draco drawled out, also getting up. "I'd rather not see those two eat, excuse me, shovel food down their gullets more like. I ought to tell their parents how disgraceful they're acting."

"And offend two staunch allies of your family while you're at it. Honestly, where do you think they'd learn to eat like that? Only from the people they grew up with."

"Their parents." Draco nodded in understanding.

"People they grew up with," Damien emphasized. _Not necessarily their parents._

They strolled nonchalantly through the train, Damien content to let Draco lead the way. Both of them vaguely noticed the stares they were receiving ranging from hatred to envy to admiration, the lattermost from the female population.

Damien surmised that, objectively, both he and his blond companion were indeed good-looking, potential ladykillers if they grew up right. Draco had the added lure of being from a rich and influential family, despite all the malicious rumors surrounding his pedigree. As for himself, he supposed he had the air of mystery that drew girls in like flies to honey.

He nearly sighed at such trivialities. If physical attraction wasn't so useful a tool, he would not have bother with his outward appearance.

Of course, no gallivanting about the train would be complete without meeting one's nemesis. Chris Potter was staring angrily at the two of them as they approached.

He was blocking their way.

"Move, Potter," Draco said coldly. "Or do you think you own the train as well, now? I understand your omnipresent need for a quick escape but you're much better off sticking to portkeys."

Chris scowled but didn't reply. Instead he brushed past the indignant blond and smiled at Damien.

"Look, _mate_, we didn't start off at the right foot…"

That was the most ridiculous understatement Damien had heard in his life.

"What was your name again?" Chris asked him brightly, flashing his trademark grin.

"Damien," He looked icily at Chris, inwardly gawping at the audacity to _patronize _him. Damien could have vaporized him on the spot for that.

"Yeah, anyway, I figure you weren't so bad…"

_Wrong._

"… that git Malfoy," He glared Draco at Malfoy who huffed disdainfully and crossed his arms. "He probably poisoned your mind with all the Dark propaganda his parents feed him. You'll find that some families are better than others, Damien."

_Don't I know it?_

"I can help you there," Chris flashed him another charming smile as he offered his hand in friendship. "We'll be great friends, I think. We'll form the most popular group in Hogwarts. Not that I'm not popular already mind." He laughed.

Damien was actually speechless for a moment.

"Thanks, but I can tell the wrong sort for myself," He withdrew his hand from Chris' grip. "He's standing right in front of me right now."

Chris turned an ugly shade of red.

"Now if you mudblood-lovers will let us pass…" Draco drawled.

At the M word, the twins (avid supporters and guards on standby) pounced on him. The Malfoy heir neatly sidestepped the attacked and the twins ended up hitting the wall Draco had been leaning on.

"Thank you, that will be adequate," He sneered. With that, he walked through the gap where the two Weasleys had been. Damien followed suit.

Chris stood there, still flushed with humiliation. For once, his charm had not worked. Someone had refused him something. He felt a strange fleeting desire to run to his mommy and cry.

* * *

Much, much later, the magical steam engine pulled into the Hogwarts station. A half-giant's booming voice called out to the students, loud and clear even amidst the splattering rain.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over 'ere!" The huge man pointed to a number of small boats rocking precariously in the mildly churning black lake. They all looked as if they were about to tip over.

"They expect us to get into _those_?" Malfoy asked, a little paler than usual.

"Are you complaining? Or are you scared?" Damien coolly asked. "Because either reason is unbecoming."

Draco glared daggers at him.

Damien relented. He was acting almost bitchy there.

"I doubt the boat is going to capsize on us – unless, say, we sit on one side while your _friends_ sit on the other." Damien smirked at the thought. W

ringing the rain from his hair, he (bravely) stepped into the rocking boat. Draco followed with resigned acceptance, making a point to sit opposite Damien. Crabbe and Goyle then stepped in, giving their weight advantage over the waves.

Steadily, awkwardly, they were off.

As they rocked across the lake though, Damien turned his head at a horse's whinny. Threstals, nearly all of them, gathered at the shore bowing their magnificent heads in their direction.

He smirked.

The older students in the carriages popped their heads out of the carriages, bewildered.

(Some panicked.)

* * *

Hogwarts Castle was more beautiful than any of the rumors could have described. Even Draco, whose residence manor was nothing less than elegantly breathtaking, had to struggle to conceal his awe. As they approached it, they could all feel the magic – warm and crooning – wash over them in waves, welcoming them to the castle.

It felt absolutely lovely.

What was not lovely, however, was the strict-looking woman who waited for them at the front door. Of course, every castle had its dragon at the gates.

"McGonagall, Dumbledore's deputy headmaster," Draco whispered in distaste. "Gryffindor head of house, hates Slytherins. You'd think they were the ones who stuck that stick up her ass the way she's biased against them."

Professor McGonagall announced a brief welcoming message and stated all the general rules for the sorting ceremony.

They entered the hall, where several ghosts hovered past, arguing about their some petty thing or another that their sorry half-lives could afford them.

(_Painful, painful, painful. Being lodged between life and death for eternity. Painful existence._)

A few of them stopped to acknowledge the new batch of students, but most simply floated past without a second glance. One particular terrifying ghost covered with silver bloodstains looked at Damien very intensely, very suspiciously.

As they entered the Great Hall, several of their would-be classmates gasped upon seeing the wondrous enchanted ceiling, strewn with storm clouds and stars.

"It's enchanted to look like the night sky. I've read about it in _Hogwarts: A History_," a bushy-haired girl whispered to her companion, obviously proud at herself for knowing.

Draco rolled his eyes. _And it was Slytherin who did it, did you know?_

At the front, McGonagall had finished summoning a stool and a frayed old hat and was unrolling a long parchment scroll that held all the names of the new students.

"Crabbe." _Slytherin. No surprise there._

"Goyle." _Slytherin. Ditto._

"Hermione Granger." _Gryffindor. The know-it-all. You'd think she'd go to Ravenclaw._

"Draco Malfoy." _Slytherin. Barely touched his head there_.

"Chris Potter."

Whispers exploded in the hall.

"_The _Chris Potter?" "Can you see his scar?" "Wow!" "I can't believe he's here!"

Now, that was silly. Simple arithmetic would clearly show that Chris Potter would be attending Hogwarts this year. Indeed, the Daily Prophet had announced the news every day since the start of August.

_Why did people feel the need to act so surprised?_

Anyway, Chris sauntered over to the hat.

It took a surprisingly long time to decide where to place the so-called _hero_ before finally calling out _Gryffindor!_

Chris looked quite flustered as he hurried to the table with applauding students clad in red. A couple of red-haired boys – the Weasley twins upon closer inspection – were yelling (rather childishly) "We got Potter! We got Potter!"

"Santelli, Damien."

Damien was not surprised when a few people gasped. His last name had been pretty infamous in the muggle world. He schooled his face into an innocuous expression.

The last thing he saw was the bushy-haired girl looking as though she might faint.

_Mr. Santelli,_ The hat said exasperatedly after a few seconds of unsuccessful sorting. _It is quite a spectacle when a first year knows how to block his mind but would you kind removing your shields for a moment?_

_I refuse. _The thought rang out loud and clear.

_I may have to inform the Headmaster about this. _The hat threatened, showing its Slytherin side.

_You mustn't do that. It'll complicate things that are already complicated. You're looking at an exceptionally powerful annihilation curse here._

_Oh, going so far as to threatening me? No doubt about it now… I don't even have to read your mind._

_Che. Obviously. I assure you – I'm ambitious and cunning and whatever else a Slytherin should be. Now announce it to the world._

_I should put you in Gryffindor just to spite you. _"Slytherin!"

* * *

"You sure took your sweet time, Santelli," Draco sniffed when Damien sat down across from him.

"I had a… conversation… with the hat." It felt rather funny to say that statement.

"You mean it actually _talks_ to you?" Draco asked.

"Of course _you_ wouldn't know. I bet when the hat saw your glaringly distinctive hair, it immediately decided on Slytherin." Blaise, beside Draco, said in a blasé tone.

"Yes, it did, didn't it, Zabini?" Draco asked smugly.

_Children..._

* * *

Not long after, the sorting ended and Dumbledore stood up to make the supposedly-riveting start-of-term speech.

"Oddment, Tweak, Blubber, Idiot." A meaningful message, never to be deciphered, manifested itself in those words. You would think that, in times of war, he'd say something more profound regarding tolerance and improved relations with one's hated enemies.

(But that would make him ridiculously two-faced, wouldn't it?)

"Crazy old man", Draco mumbled under his breath. He turned to Damien. "He's the worst thing that ever happened to Hogwarts."

"Did your father tell you that?" Damien raised an eyebrow patronizingly.

Draco flushed, but didn't admit to anything.

"It's a new age, Malfoy. Worse things have already come to Hogwarts."

_Potter. You. Me._

When the food finally appeared, the entire student body (or three-fourths of it, since the Slytherins wouldn't be caught dead doing anything in unnecessary synchrony with the other) heaved a collective sigh of relief and gusto. There were heaps upon heaps of delicious-looking dishes and heavy platter of delicacies.

Such mundane things such as _eating_ was made needlessly complex at the Slytherin table, requiring a certain amount of manners and silence and a mind to the hierarchy. Unspoken rules.

"That's Professor Snape," Draco whispered to him, once it was safe, pointing to a greasy-haired, hook-nosed teacher in soot-black robes and a face with what seemed to be a perpetual scowl. "He and father are _associates_."

_I know._ Damien had wanted to say. _And you could be less conspicuous about it._

"The man behind him, the one with the ghastly purple turban, is Professor Quirrel. A brilliant man – used to be a vampire hunter. Rumors are that he serves the Dark Lord as well, though hardly anyone knows for certain. It is always like that, any dark corner, any gathering - the Dark Lord's spies could be everywhere. You would think the Light would ante up on their security. Even at Hogwarts… _Pfft. _They deserve it if they ever discover the true loyalties of many of their comrades."

Damien nodded, still looking at the sinister-cold-looking man, who was looking malevolently at the studentry over the brim of his goblet.

Damien's gaze shifted on the man beside Quirrel: Headmaster Dumbledore.

The old man caught his eye and smiled benevolently. Damien looked away in disgust_._

His smile somewhat dimming, Dumbledore though over the strikingly mysterious, though a little recalcitrant, new Slytherin.

_He has the aura and confidence of a powerful wizard in the making._

Dumbledore had seen it in only a handful of students over the years. The first and foremost student that came to his mind was Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Oddly enough, the second was Severus Snape.

_Why could Chris Potter not have something like that?_

* * *

End Chapter Nine. Oh dear, I'm making Damien a lot more venomous this time round. Well, whatever. Gods, forgive me for this story. I was thirteen and stupid!


	10. Repost: Classes

**Notes: **I don't have the book right now, nor Internet. But then, the way canon is violated (er, raped), it shouldn't matter too much if I bastardize canon. I should post a LOVE shoutout to all the readers, how did you put up with me back then?

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

**Classes**

* * *

There were rumors bouncing around the school the next day.

"_Did you see him?"_

"_Did you see his face? His scar?"_

Chris apparently enjoyed the attention. He looked very upbeat at breakfast, smile bright as the sunshine that never seemed to reach into the castle. He knew Hogwarts after all, knew her almost as intimately as a child knew his mother, he'd grown up in the school, and nothing, not even _war_, would stop him from enjoying his first day.

In fact, he'd enjoyed walking around the castle so much, the red-and-gold crest finally upon his robes, that he and Ron Weasley, who'd taken to him almost syncophantically, arrived embarassingly late to their first class. Transfiguration, with the Slytherins.

It wasn't the most auspicious of beginnings.

"It's fine, it's fine," he wheezed near-breathlessly as they staggered into the classroom where half the eyes lit up and half haughtily turned away . "Professor McGonagall's isn't here yet."

Then he noticed the cat. _Oh._

Oh, indeed, because the cat was already changing, lengthening, the bones resettling themselves, and soon the stern-looking teacher was already in their faces, looking most displeased.

"I had expected better from you, of my House, and especially you, Mr. Potter." She shook her head, mouth a thin line (only Damien noticed the slight curling at the edges, the amusement hidden deep in her intonations). "My classroom should not be so hard find, considering I've been teaching you here for a few years already, or shall I need to transfigure your broomstick into a map again?"

"Sorry, Professor," Chris bowed his head, having at least the grace to be embarassed. "Won't happen again."

McGonagall, looking dubious, nodded, took off a few points to be fair, and directed them to vacant seats behind the bushy-haired girl. She, who introduced herself earlier in a high nervous voice as Hermione Granger, looked appalled that Gryffindor had lost points so soon.

(Damien would be the first to tell her not to be so surprised. _The losing side_.)

~0~

"Now," McGonagall faced the body of the class, the gleam of certainty and a hint of excitement in her old eyes, reassured in her knowledge of the subject. "Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous subjects you will learn. You will find that aside from the added utility and versality you may obtain from the most mundane objects, transfiguration can be a force in itself, a tool for battle. I only hope that whatever you learn within these walls would go towards ignoble purposes." Her clear gray lingered just a slight moment longer on the Slytherins. "Hence, I will not tolerate fooling around in this class. Troublemakers will not be dealt with leniency."

Then she turned her desk into a hog (_it was gray and it had wiry whiskers and it was real_) and back again. This, this was the power of _Transfiguration_, an alchemy beyond mystique and illusion, the solid reality of an object framing itself to a spellcaster's will, defying its own nature.

Damien found that he didn't much ike Transfiguration (it was exceedingly useful, yes, but obscene in its unnaturality, much like himself). He was fully capable of turning the table equally porcine, even serpentine, even Draconian, whichever he preferred, but first years were only expected to perform far less impressive tricks.

Wood to metal. Matches into needles.

(Child's play.)

"My father's good at these things," Chris was saying from his end of the room (_from his end of existence_). "He taught me most of the basic spells. Professor McGonagall too - I think I know all the spells for this class."

The redhead waved his wand and his match turned into a perfectly pointy silver needle.

McGonagall watched him, her smile visible, a memory of an equally arrogant and talented boy playing in her mind, James Potter, who'd succeeded on his first attempt as well. She gave ten points to Gryffindor.

Damien blasely turned to his own match, very much unhurried. Draco, who'd also been looking and unabashedly eavesdropping, shrugged in annoyance. The blond has perhaps wanted to say something, but relented due to to his inability to transfigure his own match.

Damien said the spell, the words were slick on his tongue, infused with power.

_A perfect needle, silver to its very core._

His mouth quirked a little in amused realization. This had been the first time he'd consciously done magic in the open air, to be seen. _Fun._

He repeated the spell, a soft whisper that seemed to dissipate into the air. Nothing happened.

~0~

Draco watched from the corner of his eye as Damien (seemingly) failed to do the spell a second time, frustrated with his own progress, or lack thereof. He'd read on Transfiguration, since his mother was most adept at charms and his father was always away and no one else (save Severus Snape) could be trusted with his instruction. Practice, he admitted, was different from Theory.

To his right, Pansy Parkinson's eyes had widened rather comically in astonishment. Her match was now very much a needle.

Draco frowned. Parkinson, while sporting her own brand of insidious cunning, had never poured much energy into learning petty spells such as these (she'd announced it at seven years old, _housewitch spells, never!_).

To his left, a grunt spurted forth. Goyle was staring, rather dumbfounded, at the silver sliver in his match.

Only years of keeping cryptic faces allowed Draco to maintain his composure. His eyes snapped suspiciously to McGonagall (_the enemy_), but even she looked genuinely shocked. His gaze traveled across the room, only briefly taking note is his own match starting to give off a metallic sheen, searching every face, and it wasn't until he saw Santelli's mean little half-smile that he finally caught on.

So Santelli was gunning for a little (though honestly, astounding) showing off? Well, if that was the case, there was no reason for Draco to interfere.

The only other Gryffindor who got it right was Granger.

~0~

The dungeons were a dark, dank place, smelling too much of dry brittle powders and moss and potions fumes, the stone walls were cold, the floor charred in odd places.

Professor Snape, gaunt in his dark robes, looked upon them all, his head held in a sharp angle, disdain in his void-black eyes. "The Headmaster said there was a promising batch of students this year, but none of you look any different from the incompetent dunderheads who seek to call themselves brewers."

A few students swallowed visibly. Several turned red, whether in rage or humiliation it cannot be determined. But Potter, the poor fool, bristled angrily.

"Yes, Potter?" Snape asked silkily. "Our _esteemed _savior."

"That's not fair, Professor. You don't know us," Chris' eyesbrows were drawn together.

"Believe me, Potter, I know you more than I care to. It is rather unpleasant to always have your countenance plastered on my daily paper."

Chris flushed angrily. Snape throttled on.

"The news had always been wrong on many counts," (Damien tilted his head in agreement.) "Perhaps we should test the latest article lauding Mr. Potter as the next genius of this generation? By their account, you are very knowledgeable in Potions, Mr. Potter. Did you know your mother was the same?

Chris shook his head.

"She'd been fairly competent. I doubted you had the insight to appreciate the subject. A bottle, Mr. Potter, a vial, a _drop_, and even without any magical power one can cast misfortune, brew obsession, stash away everlasting sleep. But maybe you thought it wouldn't be of help in the Dark Lord's, or more likely _your_, demise, you'd rather use wands."

Chris, who'd gone very still, managed to ladle out an answers. "Yes, sir, wands. My father said – "

"I do not care what your father said," Snape icily cut him off, and started the lesson.

~0~

In the end, very few students managed to still their hands enough for brewing, constantly on the receiving end of a barrage of biting criticism.

Chris and another boy, Neville Longbottom, got the worst of it. The latter's potion had exploded in a magificent burst of acid green smoke and great starbursts of melted cauldron. Neville was escorted to the Hospital wing, his body covered in great slews of pustule-filled boils and rashes, almost incoherent in terror.

Chris went away complaining.

~0~

It was after the last crying stragglers (namely, Hermione, who'd bent over her greatly-manhandled potion with grim determination) left that Draco beckoned for Damien to stay behind.

Damien scowled at him (_I do not take kindly to being ordered_.) but idled in the classroom anyway.

"If you mean to convince me that you finally gained a capable hand in potion-making, it will not work, Draco," Snape sneered, annoyance stretching across his face.

"I did my fair share," Draco sniffed starchly. "I mean no offence, but I am rather not interested in Potions. If you wanted a protegee, _Santelli_. I'm sure you will enjoy each other."

Snape and Damien surveyed each other dubiously.

"Well met, Professor," Damien nodded towards the older man, calculated respect in his voice.

"Pity Draco Malfoy thought not to inherit his mother's skills but rather his father's, but at least you show some promise, Mr. Santelli," Snape drawled, acknowledging the dark-haired boy.

"He's an _ally_, Professor," Draco said, heavy emphasis on the right words, causing both men to stared rather crossly at his distinct lack of subtlety.

Snape rubbed his forehead in aggravation, then relented and retrieved a copy of the Daily Prophet. Contrary to what he said earlier, it did not contain Potter's laughing mug but rather a mocing sepia image of irate goblins and general pandemonium.

_The break-in_. It was a spectularly-publicized and notorious event, whispers floating across lunch tables and classrooms had reeked of it.

"The Dark Lord?"

Snape shrugged ambiguously, his face sallow and tight and unreadable.

"But it didn't work out," Damien said firmly.

Snape looked sharply at him. "No," he whispered, a wince not quite supressed in his tone. "It didn't. I suppose the Dark Lord had been very displeased."

"What _was_ in the vault?"

"That is none of your business. But they said it's now hidden somewhere very well-protected, very close to the ones seeking to protect it._" _Snape said, very deliberately.

_Ah._

~0~

A voice, "I want everything there is to know about him."

* * *

End Chapter Ten.

**Spoiler: **SeverusLily is my Harry Potter OTP now, but in this story, Snape had been in love with, uh, Narcissa Malfoy.


	11. Repost: Midnight Duels

**Notes: **I altered everyone's character on the basis that they had grown up in and now living in a world at war with itself. I also wanted to eradicate the entire flying scene but that would be too major a change.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

**Midnight Duel**

* * *

Draco's face was drawn tight with the burden of expectation. _What Professor Snape had said – _there had been layers of insinuation threaded upon it: Did he expect them to help? Was this a set-up by Lucius Malfoy? Was the _Dark Lord _involved?

Damien, however, was calm. Whatever riddle the Potions Master had posed, it was only a matter of time.

Draco, catching a glance of him peripherally, felt a tinge of resentment, and perhaps jealousy, imagining how Damien Santelli could be so relaxed, obviously a child who grew up never knowing the war.

* * *

Their first flying class coincided perfectly with a sunny day. Free of mist and rain-slogged mud, the Quidditch field was a startling green and the sky a brilliant blue.

"I suppose you've heard of Quidditch?" Draco sneered as they started towards the field where the rest of the first-years were gathering, broomsticks in hand. "National sport. Wizards used to play it all the time until the Dementor attacks started, and they found entire teams sucked soulless hanging in mid-air, and everyone was scared. I used to be good at it."

"Were you?" Damined hmmmed.

As they approached, they noticed a large crowd gather around the timid boy who called himseld Neville. Upon closer inspection, their classmates were, rather than Neville, crowding interestedly around a small glass ball that was hazy with swirls of scarlet smoke.

"A Remembrall," Draco's gaze narrowed, an odd twang in his voice (Damien later it identified as _envy_). "Those are rare."

before anything uneventful could happen however, Madam Hooch arrived. She was an old bird of a woman, with twig-like bones and harpy's build, her soindly face tanned from wind burn.

Brandishing her broom, she barked at them all to get started.

A gaggle of willful voices pierced the air simultaneously, magic leaping from hands in great swathes, but only Chris Potter succeeded on his first try.

(_People had grown too used to Portkeys for travel._)

As Ronald Weasley got completely whacked by his broomstick, Madam Hooched instructed them on the basics of taking off and hovering. They were relatively simple instructions.

Unfortunately, Neville Longbottom didn't have the composure to follow even those. Perhaps in sheer fright or in the determination to do something right following a week of blunders, he kicked off powerfully from the ground before the starting whistle. It wouldn't have been so awful if the school broom did not react so dysfunctionally to the haphazard trill of his magic, freewheeling in the air and zooming up, up, up.

He reached past the lowest of the castle turrets before the broom did a sharp turn and fell with a resounding crack. Longbottom was rather lucky to survive, let along suffer only a broken wrist.

(_Magic_.)

It was Theodore Nott who broke the silence, his furtive face distorting into a cruel grin. "Did you, did you see his face?"

_(Did you see his eyes wide with fear?)_

The inevitable ruthlessness of eleven-year-olds then snaked it's way slowly into the faces of his peers, upending the harsh lines of mouths into slithery smiles that were exchanged and traded almost mockingly. Even Draco and Damien joined in.

Draco dislodged himself from the group long enough to pick something from the ground. It was the much-loved Remembrall, discarded and forgotten in the pain of injury.

Before Malfoy could sneak it into his sleeves, Chris Potter spoke. "Give it here, Malfoy."

_The defender of the weak._Damien mentally noted. _Except Longbottom isn't so weak as you expect. Must you always look down?_

Draco, flushing angrily that he was caught in the crime of not stealing but _coveting _something, suddenly handled the ball with destructive nonchalance, tossing it blithely it the air a few times.

"I don't think so," Malfoy told the redhead nastily. "I'd rather leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find easily? How about on the train home? They're sure to send him back. Squibs aren't allowed in Hogwarts."

(_Squibs aren't allowed in Hogwarts. _Damien crushed the memory of those words underfoot.)

"Hand it back, Draco. You're acting childish." There was a stern note of command in Damien's voice.

Potter did not take kindly to being usurped and, choosing to ignore his baser instincts, _challenged_ Santelli. "Chickening out, are you? Knew you were a coward."

Damien glanced at him, boredly raising an eyebrow, looking vaguely pained. Then, in a flash of decision, he snatched the Remembrall from Draco's hands and tossed it to the Gryffindor. His face had changed, almost imperceptibly, and Chris was briefly alarmed by the feral menace he saw there.

No one else saw it. Ron Weasley, in a fit of epic foolishness, had the nerve to ridicule Damien. The Gryffindors, seeing fit to avenge the humiliation done to Longbottom, even laughed. Chris seemed to obtain strength from the numbers behind him; Damien stood before him like a lone wolf, strong but singular.

_(Slytherin, it's every wizard for himself. Ciao.)_

Chris whirled on him with a vehemence that wasn't quite expected. "Beneath that punk attitude, Santellli, I guess you're really nothing."

More laughter, but Damien didn't hear it. _You're nothing, boy. Nothing._

Fury swept through Damien, lashing out like a serpent, he could barely restrain it. He wanted to slaughter every child present in the field. _Who are you to judge my existence?_

"I guess we're two peas in a pod then, Potter," Damien smiled, a creepy showing of teeth, savage and cold. "Under that hero facade, you're as empty as I am."

A collective gasp rose up.

Chris' face faltered, crumbled like a tower of sand in the desert wind, without comeback.

"Don't compare me with you, Death Eater scum," Chris finally whispered, resolute once more. "I'm going to save the world. I'm going to help people. I'm going to kick your arse in everything starting _right now. _I challenge you to a race."

_Of course you would challenge me to a competition you know you've got a good chance of beating people at. But only other people, Potter._

"I accept then."

* * *

"As far as I'm concerned, you've screwed yourself over, Santelli." Draco smirked humorlessly.

Damien glanced at him then dryly retorted, "Your confidence in me is rather endearing."

"I don't think it's funny," The blond reprimanded. "For all their faults, Potters are rather unbeatable at flying. His father was a bloody legend in Quidditch in his time, and I'm not sure if you've even _held_ a broom before."

"I know how to fly," Damien insisted coolly, proving the assertion by skipping off the ground. He hovered in the air for a short moments, then shot forward to where the Gryffindor was waiting, hazel eyes glittering with victory.

"Go!" Weasley shouted, Draco rolled his eyes and looked away, cheers flew from the crowd, and they were off.

As they encircled the Quidditch pitch, racing the air, Damien observed his opponent. True, minus the drag because of his added paunch and minus the amateur sloppiness of his steering, Chris did have remarkable potential to be a reknown flyer. The touch was there, the _thrill_, the _exhiliration_, the magic that made wizards all over history skirt over cliffs and crash into oceans for love of the flight.

Damien had it too, it sang in his blood, the sheer desire to take off into the brilliant sky, stripped free of earthly moorings, primal, _endless_. They were, in that sense, truly brothers.

He caught up with Chris as they rounded the curve.

Chris, expecting an easy victory, was surprised. Alarmed, he tried to edge forward. In that movement, Neville's Remembrall fell out of his pocket.

Damien dove for it. Like a bullet, he shot to the ground, the wind roaring in his ears, managing to spiral out of crashing merely a few feet off the ground.

The crowd broke out of its hushed daze a few seconds later, shrieking and shouting and gaping. Event he Slytherins had forgotten to look as though the challenge was contemptible and unworthy of their notice. Damien laughed, a cutting grating bitter sound, as he cupped the smoky-red ball in his hands.

_His first victory._

Nobody, save the Weasley, seemed to notice that Chris technically won the race.

* * *

"Youngest seeker in a century," Draco intoned softly and precisely, a sardonic smirk playing on his features. "What a start."

"I'm sure it's only because all other eleven-year-olds who tried for the team had their jaws dislocated during tryouts. I can see why first-years – and most second-years – is banned from the Slytherin Team."

"Don't act so arrogant, Santelli," The blond smirked, tossing back the finely-made broomstick s almost sacrilegously. It was Nimbus Two-Thousand, the brandused by Aurors and the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, top-of-the-line and painfully expensive in the wake of war. "It's only a sport."

"Yes, and despite that, Potter had been furious. You would think he wouldn't care over such unimportant things. That had been a creative exchange of words, Malfoy."

_It's too bad you didn't make your House team, Potter. Gryffindor would've descended to new lows with you. It would be a rare sight._

_And it's awful two-passenger brooms hadn't been invented, Malfoy. You can't tag along like you always do. I wouldn't mind if you became a Death Eater, that would mean You-Know-Who decided to trust bloody idiots._

_Touche, Potter. Is that how you feel? And to think just last month, you were giving such a charming message about staying on the right path. Not a very good way to boost morale now._

"And what was that about a duel?" Damien scowled at the blond. "I don't remember agreeing to it."

"I don't remember exactly how that came about. Heat of the moment and all that, thank you very much."

_I could take you, any day!_

_Prove it! Duel. Midnight. Trophy room._

_I accept!_

"Reckless, reckless, Malfoy," Damien grimaced. "I don't fancy being your second."

"I suppose it had been reckless," Draco laughed breathlessly. "Father will kill me, I think."

"I expect Potter will. He may be a fool, but I gather he's well-trained."

(_Taught from birth_.)

Draco shook his head. "I wasn't ever going to duel him, of course not. I've arranged for Filch to be waiting in the Trophy Room instead."

* * *

The next day: Chris, Ron, Hermione and Neville (exactly _how_ did he get dragged into this?) were sitting quite horrified at the table. Next to them, the scarlet hourglass of House points looked painfully bereft.

These things had happened:

The caretaker and Mrs. Norris, prowling the school deep into the night looking for wayward students or more dangerous intrusions, had seen them. They had stayed off the path towards the roving staircases and the third floor corridor, trying to find refuge instead in the grounds, in the cover of the trees and shadows.

They never met with the dementedly-named beast of hell, Fluffy. The Gryffindors saw no trapdoor.

* * *

End Chapter Eleven.


	12. Chapter 12

Halloween

Time flew by (like some sorta drunk hippogriff, if you look at it) and very soon, it was already Halloween.

Students were in a pretty much light-hearted mood since Voldemort seemed to have decreased his raids to a minimum.

Indeed, even the ministry was getting careless. Moddy, though, will _always _be paranoid.

Damien, however, was intrigued by the lack of action. He could have very easily discovered the Dark Lord's plans but that would have been very boring. _Knowing everything was boring._

He was prepared to bet, um, not anything of his for sure...okay, Draco...that omnicient people would go mental within one moment of knowing everything. He had been teetering disturbingly on the verge of insanity when his instincts kicked in and rejected the information.

_flashback_

_'I'm ready' his whispered words pierced the deathly silence like a hot knife. But he was never ready. Knowledge was like power. And whereas power crumbled mountains and tore human flesh apart, knowledge onslaughts the mind. Far more dangerous.  
_

_Damien, fortunately, had never underestimated the human mind. Brute force was an asset, yes, but dragons, lions, sharks (even pigs) had more of it than normal humans. _

_'The mind is the reason we tower the evolutionary heirarchy.' His tutor, a bioterrorist Niccolo had employed for a while, said. "We are not beasts of senseless rage nor are we driven by the desire for food. We know what we're supposed to do and how to do it."_

_'What am I supposed to do?' his head snapped up. 'Wait! No!'_

_He was being attacked from all over. After all, what better way to learn magic than experiencing it firsthand?_

_In this world, knowledge manifested itself as a physical force. Quite painful. One can only learn so much as his pain threshold can take. Knowledge, after all, should not be received with ease. Like power.  
_

_end flashback  
_

_Yes, _he thought. _Finding out things the usual way is far better.  
_

_It's also one of the ways to keep myself from power-insanity. Or pain insanity. Whatever the case.  
_

"Hurry up, Santelli." Draco called, tapping his foot impatiently.

His envy that Damien made the quidditch team (and _he_ didn't) had finally shown itself, ugly green bugger. He got over it eventually (settling to join the team in their second year) but that didn't stop him from being quite snobby (poor Crabbe and Goyle).

The annoyance he felt for the dark-haired boy _this time_ was the latter's relaxed attitude, as if he had all the time in the world. They were always _almost _late, arriving in class just seconds before the teacher.

It would have been funny if McGongall wasn't such a _priss_, Draco thought.

"Relax, Draco, we're never late." Damien laughed at his friend's ruffled expression.

"Well, one can't be too sure," Draco sniffed, leaving earlier.

But Damien wasn't late.

"You're just lucky Flitwick isn't here yet," Draco muttered crossly. "And you missed such a perfectly good let's-taunt-Weasley session."

"My loss," Damien rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Malfoy, you're such a tight-ass."

Flitwick bustled in a few moment later.

"Terribly sorry, fifty years of teaching at Hogwarts and I lost my way," the short man said in his squeaky voice. A few students laughed. "I could've sworn that passage led to here but instead I end up in..." He stopped, squeaked, and fell off his chair.

"Let's get a move on, shall we?" he chuckled. "Today, we shall be practicing levitation, making objects fly. We'll be starting with _feathers_, mind you, Mr. Finnigan." he added after Seamus looked expectantly at his table, keen of levitating it.

"Now, don't forget the nice wrist movement we've been practicing," Flitwick, perched atop a pile of books, demonstrated. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick!"

The students all did the movement. Flitwick hadn't instructed them to say the magic words yet.

Impatiently, Chris yawned and pointed his wand at his feather. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The feather floated up towards the ceiling.

"Lucky git," Draco mumbled.

"Ooh, Granger got it as well," Damien observed, seeing Hermione's feather float four feet above the ground.

Ron, jealous of his housemates' achievements, tried to do the trick as well.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" he shouted, waving his arms like a windmill.

"You're saying it wrong, Ronald" Hermione said quietly from beside him. "It's wing-gar-dium levi-o-sa, say 'gar' longer..."

Ron, in his bad mood, accidentally set fire to his feather.

"It's no wonder no one can stand that silly know-it-all," Ron muttered to Chris as soon as class let out. "She's a nightmare!"

Chris didn't say anything but both sltyherins knew that the redhead was torn between having Ron (groveling one-man fan club) or Hermione (annoying know-it-all but good for homework) as an ally.

"Hey!" Draco hissed as someone bumped into him, making him drop his bag. "Watch it, Granger!"

"The nerve of that mudblood…" Draco sneered, wiping imaginary 'mudblood filth' from his bag and robes. "Ugh, I need a bath..."

"She was crying, Draco," Damien observed.

"And why do we care?"

Hermione didn't turn up for the next class and wasn't seen all afternoon. Parvati Patil was heard telling her friends how Granger had been crying all afternoon in a bathroom.

Hermione was put out of their minds, however, when the Gryffindors entered the entrance hall and saw the Halloween decorations. She wasn't much in their thoughts to begin with. anyway.

Live bats fluttered the walls and ceiling while hundreds more swooped over the house tables. The hall was lit with glowing jack-o-lanterns (someone had found the idea of making them fall over random slytherins appealing. And, I must say, Pansy-Pumpkinhead looked lovelier than she had ever been). Sweets of all kinds came along with the feast, enough to give everyone humongous toothaches.

Damien picked up a small toffee and tentatively bit into it. Draco was chewing on a licorice wand.

"You really ought to try one of –"

Professor Quirell came running into the hall, frowning deeply. Everyone stared as he reached the Headmaster's chair and announced, "Troll – in the dungeons! You ought to know, it's your school..."

And he went out as quickly as he came, perhaps to battle the troll.

There was an uproar.

"Prefects," Dumbledore rumbled, using his authoritative persona. "Lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately! Professors follow me..."

"How could a troll get in?" Damien sneered. Trolls were too stupid to get in by themselves.

"I don't know," Draco shrugged, trying to hide his fright. _Malfoys simply don't panic._ "Maybe someone let it in as a Halloween joke."

"Some joke...The Dark Lord has an army of trolls, doesn't he?" Damien whispered as they passed groups of people hurrying in different directions, completely irrational.

"If he has, then Professor Quirrel would be in charge. He has a special gift with them, I've heard." Draco said as they jostled past some frightened Hufflepuffs.

"Interesting,"

Halfway to the dungeons, together with other Slytherins, someone suddenly stopped.

"Isn't it strange that they're sending us to the dungeons when the troll is supposedly there?"

Draco frowned. "No way _I'm_ going there now. Come on, let's hide somewhere, I'm not putting my life on the line by staying here." He whispered to Damien.

The rest of Slytherin stayed put. Some (whom Draco didn't trust were powerful enough) were ready to Avada Kedavra a troll if need be. Who was to say it was illegal when lives were at stake?

They slipped through a deserted side corridor and hid behind a giant stone gryffin. The sound of quick footsteps made them hide deeper.

"It's Uncle Sev," Draco said, wide-eyed. He jumped from behind their hiding place before Damien could stop him.

"Uncle Sev!" Draco called after the potions master. "I thought the teachers would be going after the troll?"

"Not now, Draco," Snape said impatiently. "I have to get something for our Lord quickly while Quirrel distracts the rest of them."

Snape spotted Damien out of the corner of his eye. "The two of you get back to your dormitories."

"What are getting for him, Uncle Sev?" Draco asked curiously, tagging along.

"Don't concern yourself, Draco." Snape sniffed and walked away, heading for the third floor.

"It's the thing you failed to get from Gringotts, isn't it?" Damien stated in a matter-of-fact way, keeping up with Snape.

Snape frowned. _This boy is intelligent. Dangerously so. Well, that's one thing I know about him...one thing to report to Dumbledore...messing with MY slytherins, old ham...  
_

"It is!" Draco smirked, butting in. "Can't you at least give us a hint what it is?"

Snape scowled one last time and was gone.

"Wonder how long it'll take him to come back?" Damien remarked, back in the relative safety of their hiding place once more.

"He can take his time; the dungeons are enormous. Quirrel probably has the professors on a gigantic wild goose chase." Draco smiled at the thought. "You don't really think there's a troll, do you?"

"I think so, yes, it'll look quite suspicious if there isn't." Damien said, peering out. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Someone shouted…and that awful stench…" Damien wrinkled his nose as did Draco.

Now the noise was perfectly audible, a low grunting and footfalls of giant smelly feet at the end of the passage. Something huge was headed towards them. They squeezed themselves deeper. _"Oof! Geroff me!"_

The thing came into view: it was horrible and carrying an even more horrible club. It was one of the biggest and most ferocious trolls they had ever seen, compared to the book illustrations anyway.

It entered a room on its left.

Damien clamped his hand in Draco's mouth when the latter nearly shouted at the sight of two redhead boys. They weren't the only ones outside the dormitories, apparently.

In one great leap, Chris Potter slammed the door and locked it.

"Yes!" they cried victoriously, running up the passage and clapping hands. They were about to turn the corner when a shrill, petrified scream made their hearts stop. It came from the room Chris had just locked.

"Oh no!" Ron said, paling.

"It's the girl's bathroom!" Chris gasped, running back and opening the door. _Gryffindor stupidity._

Draco pulled Damien out of their hiding place and peered through the door.

Luckily, Chris and Ron were facing the opposite direction, eyes locked on the troll. They didn't see the two slytherins.

Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall, looking so terrified that she might faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking sinks off the walls as it went, nevermind the waste of good ancient porcelain.

A memory flashed in Damien's head as he gazed at the Gryffindor girl.

_Granger…terrified…pinned against the wall…Avada Kedavra…_

His eyes widened. _Danny Granger. One of the jurors._

"Confuse it!" Chris shouted, throwing a busted sink at the troll. It grunted and turned around, fixing its mean little eyes on Chris. Snarling (wow, sharp teecth), it lifted its club and went for the boy-who-lived.

"He's going to get himself killed," Draco muttered, jaw-dropped.

"Oy, pea-brain!" Ron called, throwing a metal pipe at it. Not a good idea.

The troll turned to Ron, giving Chris time to run around it. He reached Hermione, white with fright, and pulled her towards the door.

The troll was getting more confused and more ferocious. It let out a great roar and charged at Ron.

Chris did something very brave and very stupid. He jumped the troll and stuck his wand up its nose. The mountain troll howled in agony, swinging the club at his own head.

Chris hang on for dear life, narrowly dodging the club. Sooner or later, the troll would catch him a terrible blow with that spiky club.

Hermione had sunk to the floor in fright while Ron looked dumbly on, mind completely blank on what to do.

Without anyone noticing, Damien concentrated on the air surrounding the troll. Slowly he wrapped it in tight coils around the troll's neck, leaving none for it to breath.

It stopped, gasping, and fell on the floor grasping at the air. Chris jumped off and joined his friends.

After a few seconds, the troll stopped moving entirely. Its face was very blue. It was dead.

"What happened?" Chris asked breathlessly, bending over to retrieve his wand.

"It just…died." Hermione said in a horrified tone. She was a bit calmer and more coherent now that the danger was gone.

Draco and Damien got back behind the stone gryffin just in time as Snape, McGonagall and Quirrel came round the corridor. The teachers burst into the bathroom. _The Hogwarts way: always seconds too late_.

McGonagall were looking at her three Gryffindors, looking very angry. Quirrel and Snape took one look at the troll and frowned simultaneously.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" The Transfiguration teacher asked in cold fury. "You're lucky you aren't killed! Why aren't you in your dormitories?"

"Please, Professor McGonagall – there were looking for me." Hermione whimpered in a small voice.

"Miss Granger!" the older woman looked surprised.

"I went looking for the troll because I – I thought I could deal with them on my own – you know, because I've read all about them. I wanted to prove I could take i-it on..." Hermione sniffed. "If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead by now. They didn't have time to come and fetch anyone as it was about to finish me off when they arrived, you see."

"Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this. I am very disappointed in you." McGonagall said sternly before turning to Chris and Ron.

"Well, not many first years could take on a fully-grown, and enraged, mountain troll and live to tell the tale! Ten points will be given to each of you – for sheer damned luck! Go on now; the other students are finishing the feast in their common rooms. I daresay your parents will hear of this, Potter."

"Yes, " Snape said with silky loathing. "Tell them how are precious Golden boy killed a troll and selfishly endangering himself, showing off..."

McGonagall 'hmph'ed at him.

The trio were about to hurry off when Professor Quirrel stopped them.

"How did this creature die?" he asked..

"We don't know, Sir." Chris shrugged. "Probably choked to death. It was roaring and everything. Food, a slytherin hopefully, went down the wrong way."

Professor Snape lingered behind after McGonagall left. Quirrel chose to stay behind as well, still examining the troll.

"Well," Quirrel asked. "Did you get it?"

"You know very well that Minerva had been able to head me off at the third floor," Snape scowled. "You didn't keep her busy enough. I told you to even _snog_ her if need be..."

"_He_ will not be pleased." Quirrel held up the troll's head and opened an eye. "This is the second time we have failed to retrieve it."

Snape chose to ignore this and turned to the stone statue.

"Why are you two still here!" he snarled.

Draco revealed himself, brushing his robes. "The troll came here just as you left, Professor. We had no choice but to stay hidden."

Quirrel looked suspicious. He turned to Snape, who nodded, and back again.

"Did you see what happened? This troll, one of my _worst_, was killed by a couple of first years!" he said angrily.

Damien shrugged. "Whatever happened, the troll's dead anyway."


	13. Chapter 13

I have some things to say...or write, for that matter. They're on my profile though and I don't wanna repeat them. Once was heart-breaking enough. No, it's not _that_ serious.

I love all of you reviewers! I shall remember you all when Im, hopefully, filthy rich and successful. :)

Disclaimer: Everything awful is mine. Everything wonderful is Ms. Rowling's. Reality-wise, one does not make money off awful things. Except garbage-people and recycling plants. But I'm not either.

Quidditch

The weather turned very _very _cold as they entered November.

The quidditch season has begun, judging by the fact that Hagrid could be seen every morning removing the frost from the school broomsticks. With his _pink_ umbrella. Where the remains of his broken wand was _obviously _concealed.

The first match of the season, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, would be on Saturday. If Slytherin won, they would have a substantial lead in the House points. If not, someone was certainly going to pay for it, most likely the _rookie_.

Draco and Damien, dubbed the Slytherin Duo, were tagging long with Professor Snape in the freezing courtyard on Friday. Draco was _still_ trying to wheedle out of Snape information on whatever Lord Voldemort was after.

The Potions Master was getting thoroughly fed up with it; godson or not, Draco _will _be hexed.

Ahead of them were Potter, Weasley and Granger, sitting with their backs to them. Ever since the troll incident, they had become almost inseparable.

After all, it wasn't something they could very well get out of without..._tolerating_...each other. That was the best anyone could say about Ron and Hermione's relationship.

People, especially Slytherins, had been a tad surprised that Chris would risk his own skin for a mudblood. His 'hero complex' was not all talk after all. But then again, he received a grand reward from his family and the Ministry for that, as well as press coverage. You'd think he'd blasted off an army of mountain trolls or something of the sort.

'**Boy-who-lived defeats troll, saves classmate'**. The Prophet headline had screamed the day afterwards. Good publicity was always nice.

_If I hadn't been there…_ Damien's brooding was cut off when Snape stopped. They had reached the (poor unfortunate unsuspecting) Gryffindors.

"What have you got there, Potter?" Snape asked, manic glint in his black eyes.

Chris showed the book to him, looking up defiantly, the "I-defeated-a-mountain-troll-and-you-didn't" sort. Anyway, the book was 'Quidditch through the Ages'.

"Library books are not to be taken outside the school." Snape smirked. "Give it to me and yeas, let's make it five points from Gryffindor, shall we?"

Chris flushed with indignation. "You just made that rule up!"

"Five more points for your cheek, Potter." Snape sneered. "It's time you learn that you being a hero means nothing to me."

_"Of course not, you filthy Death Eater scum," _The redheaded boy muttered under his breath.

"Interesting that you would borrow such a book, Potter, considering that you wouldn't be playing Quidditch for ages," Draco taunted, unknowingly saving Chris from a fate _nearly _worse than death.

"Oh yeah! I bet I'll make the team next year and you won't!" Chris countered. "I'm a Potter!"

Snape rolled his eyes at the boyish argument taking place and stalked off, but not before he took off another...few...points from Gryffindor. His vendetta against Potter, subtle as it may be, was not over. _Hmmm, poisons tomorrow..._

"What makes you so sure you'll make your house team, Potter?" Draco asked smugly, parading his so-called 'bestfriend'.

"You just got lucky, Santelli." Ron retorted. "If you must know, Chris has been trained by his father, James Potter, the Quidditch _legend_."

"_Blood will tell every time_," Damien laughed without any real humor. "Does it not?"

Then they left, hoping to catch up with the Potions Master in the dungeons (making another gooey brew, surely) and bug him to the point of insanity. Left, just like that.

The three stared at their retreating backs, wondering what the _heck_ Damien meant.

The next morning dawned very bright and cold (it was approaching Christmas, after all). The excitement of the upcoming Quidditch match was evident in the Great Hall, not even the four feet of snow they had last night could, _pardon the pun_, freeze their spirits.

"Do be careful out there, Santelli. Seekers are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team, mind." Zabini said with an air of someone who blessed mere humans with his presence.

"But then again, we're playing Gryffindor," he laughed nonchalantly. "They couldn't hit you if they even tried..."

"Yes, Blaise, now _if you don't mind_," Draco said with sweet venom. "We really can't play if you keep detaining our seeker,"

"Touchy, touchy," the black boy smirked.

By eleven o'clock (no matter what Draco said, the game didn't start for _ages_), the whole school was out on the stands of the quidditch pitch, roaring out their support.

In the locker room, the all-male team was deadly silent as they changed into their silver-and-green uniforms. Flint, a big, burly sixth year and captain, watched them through his small, beady eyes like a hawk watching its victim.

"Slytherin has won the Quidditch Cup for several years now. I will not be the captain of a losing team," He said calmly (it served to make him sound even the more ominous), threateningly. The older members (amazing they lasted) had barely masked painul expressions on their faces; they knew what was coming.

"Chasers, the quaffle must be in our possession as much as possible! I will kick anyone who allows it to be _intercepted_ off the team! Beaters, hit the bludgers as hard as you can at _their_ players. Strong enough to knock 'em out if it's possible, especially Wood. Bletchley, guards the goalposts. For every ball that goes through, it's one extra hour of practice for you! Santelli, catch that snitch or _die_ trying!" One could see in his eyes that he certainly wasn't kidding. "I will not let some amateur _first year_ shame Slytherin."

They walked onto the field, eliciting cheers from their housemates. As a general rule, Slytherins don't scream themselves hoarse out in public. It was a matter of dignity, their parents had said. But they had no choice, who would support their Slytherin otherwise?

_Certainly not the Gryffindors._

Madam Hooch was refereeing. She was hovering in the middle of the field, waiting.

"Now, I want a nice _fair_ game, all of you," she said once they gathered around her. She was looking at the Slytherin team in particular(because, to them, a nice game was never nice). "Mount your brooms please."

She gave a loud blast in her silver whistle. Fourteen brooms rose up in varying directions as their riders sped off.

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor – what an excellent chaser that girl is, and rather attractive too – " Lee Jordan was refereeing, to McGonagall's displeasure. Poor girl, she had no choice really. It was him..._or Percy._

Johnson passed the Quaffle to Spinnet, who passed it back again. Flint flew up between them unexpectedly and grabbed it in mid-pass. The slytherin captain, who seemed to know his game at last, sped like a bullet through the field and put away a goal with no difficulty.

"Slytherin scores. But 'sno problem, we'll catch up. Our three girls are the best I've ever - sorry, Professor," Lee said, hmmph-ing.

Katie Bell took the Quaffle, dived around Flint and was about to score when she was hit hard by a bludger. Mulciber was twirling his bat proudly, sneering maliciously.

Adrian Pucey caught the ball Katie dropped. In exchange, one of the twins hit him with a Bludger. Johnson retrieved the Quaffle and streamed down the field.

During this time, Damien flew higher than all the other players on the field, keeping his eyes on the glint of gold zooming around the field. It wasn't so hard to catch the snitch really. The sun (no longer clouded) glinted off the gold ball like crazy. _Damn Gryffindor colors._

"Gryffindors score!" Lee cried jubilantly as Angelina put the Quaffle past Bletchley. Damien shook his head in something akin to sympathy. _An extra hour of practice with Flint…_

Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, along with howls and groans from the Slytherins.

Adrian Pucey took the Quaffle, dodged two bludgers and sped towards the goals. A strangled cry was uttered as Wood missed the ball. The score was now twenty-ten to Slytherin.

A murmur ran through the crowd as a chaser, no doubt about the house, dropped the Quaffle, too busy looking over the shoulder at the flash of gold. Quick as a flash, Flint caught it and flew unnoticed to the Gryffindor post at the opposite side of the pitch.

Damien flattened himself as he dove after the snitch, sensing that waiting any more would be disastrous. The Gryffindor seeker, a seventh year named Tonks, was miles ahead of him. She wasn't very good, a bit clumsy too.

_Hadn't Draco said something about her? _Damien's brow creased in concentration. A_ reserve, or something...they hadn't been able to find a decent seeker as of yet._

Marcus Flint was yelling at him to go faster, shooting the Quaffle again while Wood was distracted. Honestly, Oliver looked as though _he _was the one to catch the snitch.

Suddenly, Tonks was thrown off-course when Warrington, a big boy on all counts, collided with her.

A roar of rage echoed from the stands below. Tonks had nearly been thrown off her broom, being so...small...compared to the Slytherin Beater. She lost track of the snitch.

Damien pulled up. He could still see the snitch of course, but the threat wasn't there anymore. Pretending to have lost sight of the little golden ball, he swerved and glided around the field once more.

"Foul!" cried the Gryffindors. Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Warrington and awarded a "penalty! penalty to Gryffindor! I've never...!".

"So, after that obvious and disgusting it of cheating…" Lee Jordan said disgustedly.

"Jordan," McGonagall growled at him.

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul…"

"Jordan, I'm warning you…"

"All right, all right, Warrington nearly kills Tonks, which could happen to anyone, _I'm sure_. Oy, Angelina scores! The score is sixty to twenty to Slytherin and… – HEY!" he snapped his head back to the score, and shouted an infanity right into the 'microphone'.

"Jordan!" McGonagall shouted, outraged.

Marcus Flint got in possession of the Quaffle again. He streamed across the field, dodging the Gryffindor chasers. A bludger sent by Fred hit him in the face, nearly breaking his nose, but not forceful enough to make the burly captain drop the Quaffle.

What a waste of sacrifice, as Wood managed to save it.

Damien circled the field. _Maybe next year I might convince Flint to make me Chaser, or Beater. Much more active._

Grinning evilly, he flattened himself on his broom again and positioned it perpendicular to the ground. With a sudden spurt of speed, he shot down at an alarming speed, so fast that he was just a green blur.

Eyes snapped on him, owners holding their breaths. One blond in particular, actually blanched as he watched his 'friend' shoot down. It wouldn't go well for him if Santelli died.

Tonks flew after him, thinking he'd seen the snitch, urging her Comet Two-Sixty to go as faster.

The crowd gasped as two seekers flew dangerously close towards the ground. Within meters (not that impressive actually) of crashing however, Damien pulled out of the dive and spiraled off, a bit dizzy.

Tonks wasn't so lucky, she was _ploughed_.

Nearly everyone winced at the sickening crash. Madam Pomfrey rushed unto the field and levitated the knocked-out seeker on a stretcher.

"Nothing serious, Nymphadora, just a few broken bones…" she assured, scowling. Gryffindor called a timeout to see to their seeker. (_I'm - ouch - okay! Don't call me that!)_

"Didn't know you had guts like that. Lucky..." Flint said gruffly, positively delighted. Even though it was one of the stupidest tactic he had seen in his time, even more so than that of the Weasley's last year. "Anyway, those Gryffindors haven't a chance now. They haven't other reserves."

Damien wasn't listening anymore. He was a bit annoyed how small he was compared to his teammates, large boys more often used for their brawn instead of brains. It was odd, really, that size was such an issue to him.

Several Gryffindors was glaring at him even though they couldn't do anything. It was a perfectly legal Quidditch ploy. He certainly hadn't meant to kill anyone.

Oliver Wood flew to the stands and started talking to one of the students.

Damien groaned inwardly. _Chris Potter._

Moments later, the redhead was flying on his broom, specially brought to Hogwarts, and playing Gryffindor seeker.

Damien flew by in front of him, sneering. Chris sneered back smugly.

Lee Jordan was announcing the change in seekers, happily emphasizing how theirs was the _Boy-who-Lived._.

Damien knew that the snitch was hovering somewhere near the Slytherin goalposts but didn't take off after it. He satisfied himself tailing Chris, who was looking for it in all the wrong directions.

"Potter," he called softly, eyes glinting. They were flying higher than anybody else so nobody heard. "Amazing how you manage to get your swelled head off the ground."

"I don't have to listen to you," Chris snapped, still scouting for the snitch near the Gryffindor end.

"Oh, come on, let's talk. We hadn't insulted each other in ages. That is, _you_ hadn't. I don't insult people, except mudblood maybe. You've inherited you father's talent?" Damien asked conversationally, a lazy smile on his face.

"Of course," Chris looked proudly (and perplexedly) at him this time. "Potter's are _always_ good flyers. It's in our blood."

"Yes, I thought so too," Damien smirked, eyes dancing in an almost _feral _manner. "But what do I know? It's been a long time since I've considered myself one."

Chris stopped, tumbling throught the air. "Y_ou're a P- Po..."_

"_Were_ or maybe never were," Damien smiled. "I'm a Santelli _through and through_ now,"

He allowed Chris a flashing glimpse of his real face, a face unmistakably like James and eyes as jaded as, though much darker than, Lily's.

Chris' jaw fee open in shock. It made him look like an over-sized guppy, not very attractive.

Damien frowned. He had hoped to see how Chris would react. _But..._

Without another word, he used his powers to turn back time, a luxury he vowed that he would avoid using at all costs.

_A whirlwind of colors, like a video in fast reverse._

He opened his eyes to the sight of cheering Slytherins. Flint had just broken his nose, blood spurting on his robes.

Satisfied, he caught the snitch as it whizzed past his left ear. Tonks barely had time to blink.

Slytherin won, as the upset Lee Jordan announced, two hundred and twenty to forty.

End Chappie. This was supposed to be a teaser but I'm not sure anyone would like it.

sighing despondently, the author's shoulders slump defeatedly. I am not updating 'til I get at least ONE review. That's pretty demanding.


	14. Chapter 14

I got my one review. A whole lot of reviews actually. :) I'm glad most of you liked that _risky_ chapter. Yeah, I crossed the line of Mary-sue-ishness somewhat.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I guess, as someone told me, that I _do _own Chris Potter a little bit. But I'm not proud of it.

Erised

_"Why do we desire most those that we cannot attain?"_  


Christmas was coming.

How odd that wizards, most of whom had no idea what it signified, celebrated it. All they knew was that a very powerful babe was born yon Christmas Day and a choir of Seraphim (an extinct variation of veela, it was theoreticized) serenaded him. Anyway, the history was not really important. It was _tradition._ It was _"a custom which our ancestors established and kept flourished"_.

It meant...presents. And when one gets presents, who really cares?

The weather became so cold that the lake froze solid ("does anyone want to make sushi out of the giant squid?"). Hogwarts became covered in several feet of snow, making it look like one of those nifty little snowglobes.

The worst place to be was Professor Snape's classes down in the dungeons, where their breath rose before them in a mist while the students try to get as close to their cauldrons as possible. It was out of quiet desperation that some sorry Hufflepuffs asked the Potions Master to cast a heating charm over the room. (_"A 'warming' charm, Ms. Fawcett? Perhaps it has not penetrated your thick mind that warming charms are extremely volatile in a Potions room. But if you insist...")_

"Damien, will you be staying at Hogwarts this Christmas?" Draco asked one such potions class.

Damien nodded as he measured out powdered spine of _lapu-lapu_ (a particularly dangerous fish that goes for the throat). It was true that he wouldn't be going back to his _house_ for Christmas. He certainly didn't have a family to go home to. _As if._

Earlier that week, Professor Snape made a list of students who would be staying for the holidays. Damien had signed up, surprised to see that a large number of Slytherins would be staying as well.

"I'm staying as well," Draco said nonchalantly, although his eyes said differently. "My parents will be spending Christmas in France. Father said something about an operation gone wrong there.."

At the end of class, a huge fir tree blocked the entrance/exit of the dungeons. Professor Dumbledore felt that the "nasty, gloomy ol' place" needed some spucing up.

"Hey, Hagrid, want any help?" Ron Weasley asked, sticking his head into the branches and looking up at the guy dragging it. He looked _too_ excited to be sincere.

"Nah, I'm all right," The gigantic man huffed from behind, though his awkward actions said differently.

"Then, would you mind moving out of the way?" Draco drawled coldly, crossing his arms impatiently. "Are you trying to earn some extra money, Weasley? Training to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose – that hut of Hagrid's must seem like a palace."

The angry redhead dived at Malfoy just as Snape came out of the room.

"WEASLEY!"

Ron let go of Malfoy's robes. (_"Ugh, Weasley dirt...")_

"He was provoked, Professor," Hagrid defended. "Malfoy was insultin' 'is family."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Be that as it may, _fighting_, not insulting, is against Hogwarts rules." He said silkily. "Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn't more."

He pushed past the tree, quickly followed by the Slytherin duo, scattering needles everywhere. The tree, bare in some places now, was ruined. (_"Maybe that'll teach that old fool about putting blasted shrubbery in MY dungeons...")_

"I'll get him," Ron ground his teeth at Malfoy's back. "One of these days…"

"I hate them all," Chris agreed. "Mafloy, Santelli and Snape."

Because they couldn't go home to their exquisite estates for Christmas (because for some reason, _everyone_ went to France) Slytherins spent entire days cooped up in their dormitories or sitting on the couches near the fireplace in their common room. Or shopping in Hogsmeade, flaunting off their excessive purchases.

"You'll be surprised how hard we have to look for presents," Pansy whined to Damien on the second day of christmas vacation. "The ones you give out shows your status as a pureblood. Really! Last Christmas, someone gave me a _measly_ set of formal robes...They weren't invited to our Christmas Ball. So, what are you getting for me, _Damien_?" giggle.

Come Christmas morning, piles of presents at the foot of each of their beds. Damien had not expected to get much, considering his _situation_. Besides, the few people who would get him a present (and not for socio-political reasons) probably had no idea where to mail them anyway.

Merry music was playing somewhere above them. The room didn't look very christmassy. Too much green, too little red.

"Happy Christmas," Draco yawned as he pulled open the curtains around his bed. Gray eyes lit up at the sight of his pile, bigger than the others. "I got more presents than you."

"Who really cares?" Theodore Nott snorted from his bed.

"Well, it's nice to know that someone cares more for me." Draco shot back, starting to open his gifts with all the decorum of a pureblood.

"Should I take offense at that? My pile's the smallest." Damien asked stoically, glaring coldly. Draco shrugged.

Santelli picked up a small parcel wrapped in black cloth. His eyebrows shot up as he read the tag.

"Is that a dagger!" Draco gasped out. A parcel fell off his lap as he scrambled closer to Damien, spilling various sweets (the most expensive and exotic kind of course) on the carpet.

"Yes, Imagine that." A fond smile played on Damien's lips as he scanned Marco's present. It was a double-edged silver one, about 6 inches long, and extremely sharp. The hilt was finely-sculpted and embedded with several stones, which were really glass vials filled with poisons. The tag simply read:

_It was the one your papa used for 'special' cases._

_You deserve it._

"You get the nice presents," Draco sounded amazed, going the others without permit. "Minus the fact that their muggle-made." He was holding up a deck of cards, the ones that you could throw at a person to slice them, examining their razor-sharp edges. "We could test these one Weasley..."

"Your presents are loads better than everyone else's, Draco" Blaise pointed out, trying on some dragonhide boots from his sixth stepfather.

Draco's pile, unwrapped and opened, was a heap of expensive robes, quidditch supplies ("_What? Do you really think I'm just gonna stand by while Damien has all the fun?"_), sweets and books. The whole heap would've cost more than twice the money in the Weasley's vaults. ("Everyone knows it's the Order that pays for their school stuff.")

"Yeah, but they're boring, not even remotely dangerous..." the blond whined, tossing it all carelessly into his trun, where they self-arranged. "I get the same stuff every year."

"I don't think so," Damien smirked, tossing Draco something from his bedside. The other boys had gone to the girl's dormitories, maybe to rant out to whoever gave them all cloaks. (_"Not even egyptian silk! How cheap could a person get?!)_

"You got me a present," Draco grinned. _As if you didn't expect it. _"Careful, Santelli, someone might think you actually have a heart in there."

"Perish forbid," Damien mumbled.

A flood of silky, watery material spilled out as Draco opened the present. The silver-gray cloth fell to the floor in gleaming folds.

"If this is what I think it is…" Draco said in a hushed voice, pale eyebrows shot up in surprise. "They're rare and quitevaluable. Father won't even buy me one because they're too hard to find. How did you get it?"

"I have my secrets." Damien smirked. "Tell the others it came from your father."

"Let's go to Uncle Sev," Draco announced after dinner, dragging Damien along. "Though I doubt he celebrates the holidays, he might be drunk enough to tell us something. Like why he didn't go to france with the others or the...whatever thing...the Dark Lord is after."

"What are the chances of Snape getting drunk, Malfoy?"

"Small."

"Infinitisimally so."

They took a shortcut through the library, in the restricted section at the back.

Draco suddenly stopped between two dusty shelves and sneezed, dropping the lamp he had been holding.

The other boy groaned. _Rich people and their allergies._

Draco apologized and bent to pick up the lamp. Before Damien could warn him to watch out, Draco accidentally knocked off a large black and silver volume off a shelf. It fell open on the floor, emitting a bloodcurdling shriek.

Draco snapped it shut, silencing it. They looked at each other,horrified...and bolted away.

Tugging the invisibility cloak to cover every inch, the slytherins scampered out the library, passing Filch in the process.

They looked over their shoulder to see if he was following. Their pounding feet was certainly loud enough. But he wasn't, amazingly letting a " bloody troublemaker student" off.

Instead, he was talking to someone they couldn't see.

Still striding quickly away...Draco screeched to a halt inches from a suit of armor, Damien stopping closely behind.

"What the-"

"There isn't supposed to be any suit of armor here." Draco stated, observing it and the open door right beside it. "No door either."

"Let's go inside before Filch returns," he suggested, listening to the fading footsteps. They entered the room, an unused classroom by the looks of it: dusty, dilapidated, chalky.

The only thing unusual with it though was a magnificent gold mirror propped up against the wall. The inscription read: _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_.

"I show not your face but your heart's desire," Damien read, eyes narrowing. "I heard of this mirror, the Mirror of Erised. It's supposed to show you the thing you want most in the entire world. It's brimming with dark magic..."

"Really?" Draco asked, a hungry look in his eyes.

"You'll be surprised how desire rules over men. Desire could easily take, control, empower...destroy us. The Dark Lord uses that skill, manipulating men's own wants against them."

"What do you see?"

"I haven't looked into it yet. You go first."

Draco obliged and moved in front of the mirror.

"I see myself as one of Voldemort's Inner Circle, the elite Death Eaters, with father. He's actually smiling proudly." Draco scoffed. "As if that'll ever happen."

"I've long given up impossible dreams like those." Draco said, almost bitterly. "I know where my limits are. That way, I won't be wasting my life just...dreaming away."

"Good, that's the mirror's trick: it kills most wizards by dangling dreams in front of them. Dreams that will go unachieved, resulting in anguish, I guess. I do wonder why someone would place this mirror here." Damien voiced.

"Who cares? It'll probably be moved anyway." Draco said impatiently. "What do you see?"

Damien moved in front of the mirror and smiled in the way a hopeless longing person would smile: empty. "I see nothing."

"That's it? What does that prove?" Draco sighed. "Okay, let's go. We can still catch Uncle Sev if we hurry."

Damien cast one last look at the mirror.

He wasn't lying, of course. He really did see...nothing.

End Chapter. I'm sorry it was awful (honestly, I thought it was AWFUL). I'm completely buried under my schedule right now and can't make good chapters. I swear, I'll improve this come Christmas break. Happy holidays everybody.

No demands for reviews this time. 'cause i'm expecting flames. awful chapter. bad author.


	15. Chapter 15

Apology for that awful-awful chapter. It was completely rushed and non-flowy and, ugh, missing a few scenes. Damnit, I should really start jotting my ideas down. I keep forgetting. I worship all ye wonderful readers, especially reviewers.

Disclaimer: Alternate Universes do exist, don't they? In one, I OWN Harry Potter. I don't in this one though. Sadly.

Cerberus

Term started again (an end to all those lazy days of lounging in the common room). And with it, Quidditch, much to Damien's chagrin.

Flint worked the team even _harder_, with training sessions through snow, sleet and rain. He appeared to have a personal goal of working them all to death.

"If Slytherin won this game, winning the house cup for the eight year in a row would be certain." He would reason in a very low dangerous voice and no one would think about questioning him further.

"We'll win this one," He smirked smugly one afternoon. "Just found out earlier, Professor Snape volunteered to referee.."

"They don't stand a bloody chance then," One of the beaters agreed, throwing away his bat. "Oy, Flint, lay off just this once, okay? Some of us still have O.W.L.s to study for. My parents won't be too pleased if I get less than nine, and you know how they get...they'd disembowel me the moment they read it."

Flint narrowed his eyes at him, matching the burly boy's intimidating stance. After a moment's hesitation, he let them go. Only to give them five extra hours of practice...two or three days later. _Maybe seven hours._ Flint grinned maliciously.

Slightly relieved at being spared another few hours with the 'dunderheads' (because, no matter how hard he'd try, that poor beater bloke was gonna get disemboweled), Damien went to the library to work on his _and Draco's_ DADA homework. The blond had taken it upon himself to be pairs with him, knowing who would do the bulk of the work.

Damien contented himself with the knowledge that Malfoy was indebted to him. He would simply collect later.

Draco was already outside the library when he got there, apparently done with his share.

What was surprising though was that he was talking with _Longbottom_.

"What are you doing?" Damien asked, sparing a quick glance at the boy-who-was-nearly-wetting-himself. Neville was obviously afraid, his discomfort increasing now that Damien had also arrived. _Malfoy alone had been enough._

"I just want to show Longbottom here how nicely I've mastered the Leg-Locker curse." Malfoy explained, not moving his eyes from the poor Gryffindor. "I've been waiting to practice it on someone. _Locomotor Mortis_!"

Neville's legs snapped together. _Ouch. It tended to be much more painful on boys._

"Oh please…" Neville choked out. He was so pathetic that Damien nearly cringed.

"Perfect," The dark-haired boy commented on Malfoy's spell. "Now leave him alone, Dray. He might wet his robes any moment now."

Neville went red and whimpered. Unbelievable that this is the son of _the_ Frank Longbottom, the one it took three Death Eaters to subjugate.

"Aw, shut up," Malfoy snapped at Neville. "Granger'll (_that little mudblood_) know the counter curse, considering that she's such a know-it-all. Get out of here!"

Neville gave a small squeak and hobbled away.

* * *

(this line thing is so convenient. how come I didn't see it before?) 

The wind played with his hair as he maneuvered his broomstick around the field once again. Up in the sky, he felt a freedom like no other. He actually felt a smile grace his face.

No, it was a smirk.

They were playing Hufflepuff today. _Too easy._

He could see Snape moving around, his sharp eye focusing on the Hufflepuffs, who were too nervous seeing the oh-so-dreaded Potions master to play very well. In the stands below, he could see the silver shine of Dumbledore's beard, signifying the Headmaster's presence.

He couldn't see Malfoy's signature blonde (glaringly so but nice nevertheless) hair among the Slytherins though. It was in the Gryffindor stands, right next to red, carrot and bushy brown.

_Three guesses who. _Damien rolled his eyes and followed the snitch. He suspected that Flint wanted to keep the game going for as long as possible, reaping more and more house points. Hufflepuffs were such pushovers.

...down...

"Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn't see you there." Malfoy drawled, accompanied with his two bodyguards. He had just poked Ron in the head.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Chris demanded, taking his wand out.

"Nothing, you don't own this stand you know, Potter. Don't be so...violent. Hmmm, quite a group you have here: a mudblood, a scarhead, a penniless muggle lover, and a brainless idiot." Crabbe and Goyle laughed.

"I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy!" Neville stammered, turning bright red.

"Now who told you to say that, Longbottom? I doubt you could tell me such a thing without being dictated to." _Just like Crabbe and Goyle, but at least they're Slytherins._

"You're not so brave when you're not with your apes or Santelli, Malfoy." Chris scoffed. "In fact, you're _nothing_ without them."

Draco scowled, pride hurt. "And I suppose you think you're something Potter?"

Chris turned red and was about to say something when a great roar of victory erupted from the Slytherin stands.

"Damien is good, is he not?" Malfoy smirked proudly. "Better than you can ever hope to be."

"It's in the blood," Chris said without thinking, baffling himself and everyone around him.

Draco sneered at the utter stupidity of what Chris just said and strutted away, flanked by the two bodyguards.

* * *

"Excellent!" Draco beamed as his friend swooped down on the ground after a smashing victory, leading by nearly three hundred points. "Uncle Sev was genius! Awarding all those penalties…" 

_Speaking of Snape…_

He was heading towards the forest, walking rapidly under a hooded cloak. The gait, and the eerie swish of the robes, was unmistakable. For young boys with damnable curiousity, was there really any other choice but to follow?

"Potter said something odd earlier..." Draco said silently as they tried to keep up. "Something about 'it runs in the blood'..."

"He _is _Potter," Damien snorted. "It's not as if he could make sense at all..."

_Bloody repercussion...I wonder how big the rip is, gotta fix it soon. _He had learned how messing with time causes "rips" wherein alternate universes would mix, not a very good consequence. And it really _hurt _to fix them, because he'd have to destroy, _totally annihilate_, the universe that poured into his reality. A waste of effort.

"Shhhh..." The were approaching slowly now, for fear of being discovered.

In a shadowy clearing, Snape and Quirrel were arguing.

"Have you found a way to get past Hagrid's three-headed beast yet?" Snape asked, angry. The other man shook his head.

"And you're the supposedly dark creatures expert..." The Potions Master sneered sarcastically. "How are we supposed to get the sorcerer's stone now?"

Draco gasped, turning the attention of the two spies to them.

"You two are supposed to be at dinner! You know how I _absolutely hate_ taking points from my own house." Snape hissed venomously.

"We followed you," Draco explained sheepishly but then perked up. "It's the sorceror's stone the Dark Lord wants, isn't it?"

Snape sighed, rubbing his temple in frusration (or maybe to ease his temper and not blast his godson halfway up to the moon). "Very well, yes, it is. No one else must know of this, especially Dumbledore. I expect no tongues to be wagging (I'll personally cut them off if I have to)."

His last sentence held the _hint_ of a threat.

"What do you think of us?" Draco snorted, outraged. "Stool pigeons? We want to _help_ you!"

"This is none of your business. We _don't_ need eleven year olds messing up our work or, more importantly, the Dark Lord's plan. That foiled attempt on the Flamel's in France was mistake enough..." Quirrel said gruffly, pulling on his own hooded cloak. "Still wish we knew how to get that beast without use of Dark Arts…"

Dark Arts would be easily detectable, out of question. The stone _is_ guarded after all.

"Music," Damien said simply.

"What?" The other three were still arguing (Draco kept butting in with mentions how how he could help and reap the glory). There had been talk of sleeping charms and immobilizing spells, all of which were ineffective on Cerberus' hide.

"Music," Damien repeated. "In ancient myths, Orpheus the musician used his harp to charm the beast, to get into hell or something. I think the trick still works today…"

_I wish he had told me had before I gave up that dragon egg._ Quirrel thought.

End Chapter. Better or worse? I hope it was better.

Ahem. Not updating 'til I get my one review. again.


	16. Chapter 16

It's 2007 already...and so far its been a mad year. Thanks for all the reviews.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I'm only borrowing it for the purpose of entertaining myself.

Dragons

It was the first really fine day they had in months. The sun was out and the sky was cloudless and the fresh air was all around. It was the kind of day Snape loathed; it was too _damn _cheerful.

It was practical to simply spend the day outside, lounging and not studying, despite the huge amount of work the teachers gave. Those who weren't workaholics like, say, _Granger (_who naturally called it 'cramming' to study only ten weeks in advance for their upcoming exams. _"Ten weeks, Ronald! How could I have been so careless!"_) flocked around the lake, with an air of careless indifference about their forgotten homeworks.

Pansy, convinced that Draco looked entirely too pale, dragged him out with the help of a smirking Blaise and Theodore. "Draco, you're beginning to look like a vampire. You're more uptight about your skin than I am! A little sun wouldn't hurt..."

So, that afternoon, the whole lot of first-year slytherins (_Pansy_ thought it was only just that _everyone_ be there) found themselves utterly bored. After months of being in the dungeons, the pleasantness of the weather was extremely boring.

"What on earth are those three gryffindors up to?" Daphne Greengrass suddenly asked, narrowing her eyes as their least favorite trio strode purposely to the gamekeeper's hut. Hermione was looking exasperated, being away from her books. "That Granger, _she_ tried to correct me in Potions the other day, what a laugh! I know exactly how to brew poison, I used to give them to our house-elves..."

"Whatever, I want to see," Draco got up, curious at Hagrid's odd behavior. The large man had gone out of his hut, looking suspiciously guilty, and rushed the trio in. The door closed shut after them. "Anything that gets Granger away from work should be interesting, _perhaps incriminating_, enough to use."

"Draco -"

"Stay here, Pansy, I don't want you flubbing this up. I need someone with brains," He looked purposely at Damien.

A short while later (it was Malfoy's idea to pass through all those bushes to get to the hut, stupid really), the two of them finaly reached a small uncovered window. Now, it was only a matter of covering Draco's glaring hair for them to spy successfully.

"…wondering if you could tell us what's guarding the stone apart from the three-headed dog." Chris was saying, smiling with mock-sincerity. "I promise, we won't go looking any further."

"How'd yeh know 'bout Fluffy?" Hagrid frowned, though it wasn't obvious behing that hairy beard.

"I should know," Chris said smugly. "Dad mentioned it, said it was guarding something very important for Prof. Dumbledore. He knows a lot of what the Headmaster is doing right now."

"Thing is, Hagrid," Hermione said in a sweet voice as she noticed the giant man's uncomfortable squirm. "We only wondered who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him, apart from you. You and him are _that_ close."

Hagrid beamed.

_Suck up,_ Draco mumbled.

"Well, I don' s'pose it could hurt ter tell yeh…let's see…he borrow'd Fluffy from me…then some o' the other teachers did enchantments…Professor Sprout – Flitwick – McGonagall," he ticked off his fingers. "Quirrel an' Dumbledore himself did somethin', o' course. Hang on, I've forgotten someone. Oh yeah, Professor Snape."

"But Snape's trying to steal it, whatever it is!" Ron blurted. "Now, if you'd only tell us what it is..."

Hermione looked disapprovingly at him for being so obvious.

"Nonsense! Snape is a 'Ogwarts teacher!" Hagrid defended, albeit reluctantly. "Dumbledore trusts him."

"He's a Death Eater! I don't care what the hell Dumbledore says about his innocence! My father still doesn't trust him!" Chris said defiantly.

"Yep, I heard o' his famous fights wit' Snape…" Hagrid chuckled. "They weren' 'xactly the best of friends, were they?"

Chris shrugged, diverting his eyes to the blazing fire. "Snape is a lying, cheating bast-"

"Isn't rather hot to be making a fire today, Hagrid?" Hermione asked in a loud chirpy voice, drowing out Chris' last word.

"No, uhm, I've bin kind o' cold really..." He looked uneasily at the fire.

"Hagrid – what's that?" Ron yelped, pointing to a big, black egg underneath a kettle. "Blimey, it must've cost a fortune!"

(Outside…)

"What is it?" Draco asked, once again showing ignorance.

"I think… I think it's a dragon's egg." Damien whispered, eyes wide.

* * *

Draco couldn't stop talking about the egg. "Do you think it'll be a Horntail? My father told me that those were the biggest..." 

It was apparent that he finally had something in common with Hagrid: an obsession with dragons, his namesake.

"It was fate that I be named that, Santelli. Dragons are such fine, powerful creatures of sterling grace and..."

He kept following the three Gryffindors around, wanting to see when they would visit Hagrid again. He actually seemed to have a talent for sneaking around for not one of the trio realized they were being followed for days.

Malfoy's efforts were rewarded when one morning…

"It's hatching!" Chris said excitedly to his companions on their way to Herbology. "Hagrid wrote me this morning, it'll be out by this morning!"

"Cmon, how many times in our life can we see a dragon hatching?" Ron tried enthusiastically to convince Hermione to skip Herbology and head straight down to Hagrid's hut.

"No, I am not skipping a class this close to exams!" But looking at her only two 'friends' crushed faces, she finally conceded to go there on their morning break, '_for the educational sake of it_'.

* * *

"_Isn't he beautiful?" _

Everyone present (including two at the window) wrinkled his/her nose as Hagrid bent down to kiss the umbrella-resembling dragon.

It snapped palyfully at Hagrid's fingers. "Bless him, he knows his mum!"

"Are you sure it's a he?" Ron asked, coming closer. "Charlie told me females were the more dangerous ones, 'specially when they're mothering."

"How fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow, Hagrid?" Hermione asked worriedly, sizing up the cabin and wondering how long it'll last.

Hagrid bout to answer when the color drained from his face. He saw Draco, who had his nose pressed to the window, whose dustiness couldn't hide that unusually bright hair.

"C'mon!" Damien urged, tagging Draco away towards the castle. "We saw enough. Can't have Potter tell his daddy about sneaking slytherins more than necessary." That seemed to break Draco out of his trance.

They were already halfway to the castle when the door tumbled open and the four saw them.

"Blackmail, pure and simple. Have we got them on a leash!" Draco smirked gleefully as they walked inside.

* * *

For an entire week, Potter and his friends had been glancing worriedly at the two of them, wondering when they would start squealing about illegal dragons. 

"_They hadn't snitched yet but sometime now_…" The anxiety Hagrid must be going through was enough to paint a semi-permanent smirk on Draco's face (which kept creeping Pansy out).

On Thursday, they saw s horrified Ron being ushered to the hospital wing, sporting a green-tinged hand swollen to nearly twice its size.

_Dragon bite. "Don't you wish it was poisonous and Weasley keeled over instead?" _Draco sighed wistfully.

They waited a few minutes after Chris left and entered the Hospital Wing, looking of all innocence.

Madam Pomfrey barred their path, carrying a terrifying needle the size of a pencil. "May I help you, boys?"

Tearing his eyes away from the weapon in the nurse's hand, "We just want to borrow a book from Ron, Madam." Draco said sweetly, using his innocent-little-me face. _It always worked on old maids and such._

"What are you two doing here?!" Ron barked as they approached his bedside. He warily stowed his hand under the bedcovers.

"Careful, Weasley, we just might tell the nurse what _really _bit you. Yeah, don't bother hiding it. I understand that you told her it was a dog." Draco said in a superior voice with barely hidden malice.

Ron fell silent, glaring daggers.

"To be honest, we just came here to have a good laugh." Draco's tone shifted to _nearly_ casual.. "We hadn't had one in days, have we?"

"We haven't seen Potter or Longbottom lately, so...no." Heat rose in Ron's cheeks, the red color complementing the green and purple of his hand.

They spent a few moments taunting the helpless redhead, belittling his family and all. Draco did most of it. It was odd that there seemed to be a hidden note of bitterness in his tone, an anger that wasn't the usual.

"Before we go…" Draco snatched up a book from Ron's bag. "I told Pomfrey we were borrowing a book. You can get it back from Professor Snape."

* * *

"What's this?" Draco pulled a letter from between the pages of Ron's Charms textbook. 

It was a letter from one of Ron's brothers, Charlie, the dragonkeeper.

"Saturday?" _We'll be there._

They went out (after evading Blaise), under the ever-so-invisibility cloak, at eleven o'clock and headed to the Astronomy Tower. They arrived first.

The sound of a footsteps announced the Gryffindor's arrival.

In a reckless way uncharacteristic of a Malfoy, Draco jumped out from under the cloak and bellowed. "You're in big trouble, Potter! Where's the illegal dragon?!"

Damien climbed out of the cloak too, if only to shut Draco up.

_Surprise, Surprise…_

Looming over them was Professor McGongall, clad in a tartan robe and hair net, looking vicious. Potter was nowhere to be found.

"Detention!" she shouted, outraged. "And forty points from Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the night, how _dare_ you – "

"You don't understand, Professor!" Draco protested, looking desperately over McGonagall's shoulder for a sign of movement. "Potter's coming! He's got a dragon!"

"What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! I shall see Severus about the two of you!" She turned on Damien, deciding to give him the lowdown as well. "I had expected better from Slytherin's star student!"

"It's true, Professor," Damien said calmly. "Potter has an illegal dragon."

He could see that she didn't believe him. To make matters worse, she got even angrier at the thought of 'dragon lies'. It had been enough of a distraction for him to shrink the invisibility cloak and pocket it.

"'Scuse me, Professor," Filch interrupted, happy to have found a person of authority (it was a bonus for him that she was furious beforehand. _More punishment!_). "I've caught these two earlier in the Astronomy Tower!"

He shoved a white-faced Hermione and scared-looking Chris towards their Head of House, livid now. It was a wonder that McGongall hadn't died earlier from anger-induced stress.

_It was worth getting caught for this. _Draco thought with satisfaction.

End Chap15. I hope my grammar's getting better. Note: this fic will be HET HET HET.


	17. Chapter 17

This is not HHr, in case that's what any of you are thinking. not. not. not.

Sorry I take so long to update but its been a hellish week and it will continue to be so until, um, end of FEB? plus, my just-finished chem exam sapped me of all brainpower. Glad this chap is already done.

There, SylvanD. You updated so I updated. I should blackmail you more often.

This is dedicated to all those who took the time to review. They make writing worthwhile. (Wow, since when did I care?)

Disclaimer: I don't HP as much as I own a perfect score on aforementioned exam. Which is like, just the opposite.

Forbidden Forest

They were all in McGonagall's office, bearing her wrath, listening as she repeatedly bashed their fragile dignities. When Filch entered the room again, it was almost a relief. Especially that he carried a petrified-looking Neville, who can, at the very least, share punishment.

"Chris!" Neville burst out the moment he saw the redhead, looking extremely flustered. "I was trying to find you to warn you! I heard Malfoy saying he was going to catch you! He's said you had a drago- "

There was a moment of ringing silence when Neville saw that the blond was in the same room, glaring daggers at him.

"You were all up the Astronomy Tower at one o'clock in the morning! One o'clock! I never would have believed it of any of you! Especially you Gryffindors!" She looked even more livid than expected.

"I think I've got a good idea of what's going on. Yes, don't think I don't, Mr. Potter. It doesn't take a genius to work it out. You fed these Slytheins a cock-and-bull story about a dragon, trying to get them out of bed and into trouble. I suppose you think it funny Longbottom here heard the story and believed it too?"

Neville looked stunned and hurt.

"I'm disgusted," the teacher continued, nose flaring. "Five students out of bed in one night, I've never heard such a thing before! Detentions for all of you and fifty points from Gryffindor! I'll leave Professor Snape to deal with you two."

"Fifty?" Chris asked, flabbergasted.

"Fifty points _each_."

"Professor – please…"

"You can't do this! You're our Head of House!"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't to, Potter. I've never been more ashamed of Gryffindor, especially you! I would have expected the hero of the wizarding world to have more sense! Really! Illegal dragons!"

"And you!" She turned to Damien especially. "You should've known better than to believe him!"

* * *

"It was well worth forty points off Slytherin to take a hundred and fifty off Gryffindor," an older boy said ,admiringly _and _grudgingly, to the two first years the morning after. The boy beside him nodded once in agreement. 

"Especially off that Potter," He muttered. "I swear, if the Dark Lord doesn't kill him, _I will_. Trying to tell me where to put my wand..."

It had spread like wildfire throughout the school what the boy-who-lived and his friends had done. Gryffindors. Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws alike had turned to spurning the three. The 150 points Gryffindor lost had greatly increased Slytherin's lead for the eight year running and House animosity was at its peak.

"Why Chris?!" A seventh year shouted. "We could've stood a chance this year!"

Percy Weasley looked murderous. He positively stalked his way out of the dungeons, not sparing a glance at the passing first-years.

"Not that I don't approve of it, Draco." Snape said, plucking Draco and Damien away from the rest just before Potions. They were in his study, just a few doors down from his classroom. "But you must not continue the ...feud... between you and boy wonder. And your father agrees. It is simply not wise to make enemies so early."

"Why?" Draco, crossing his arms defiantly, asked coldly. "We didn't do anything rash."

Snape looked piercingly at his godson, something unreadble in his eyes. "You'll be doing detention along with the Gryffindors tonight at eleven."

Draco sent a withering look to their Head of House whose face remained quite impassive. "Why do we get detention? We were the victims here!"

Snape didn't get a chance to reply, for at that moment, Quirrel strode angrily inside, and without another word, took a long swig of Firewhisky from one of the potions bottles. He looked frustrated enough to kill.

"It's not working! I still don't know how Dumbldore's protection works!" he growled, then sniffed the bottle. "This hasn't poison in it, I hope?"

Snape shook his head.

"So you got past Fluffy then?" Draco asked, his mind now miles away from the looming detention.

"_Fluffy?_" Quirrel snorted. "That thing has a name?" he took another drink, looking aggrieved. "Yeah, yeah, music works. But the mirror…"

"You've done quite enough poking around, boys," Snape cut him off hastily. "We will talk later, Quirrel. Now, we must go. I daresay my students are waiting for me. Come, both of you..."

"Right, right," Quirrel nodded, following them out. "I must make my exams as well..."

"But exams are ages away!" Draco said. "Surely, what you have to talk about is more important than -"

"This is not the place to talk!" Snape hissed, eyes glinting. "And, exams are not far off. Santelli, I expect you to get the best grades of the year!"

* * *

The early light of dawn illuminated the Owlery and bathed in a soft light. The cool air felt refreshing. There weren't many owls in there, for they had gone to fetch the morning papers, but Damien was. 

"Gabriel," He called to his golden-brown eagle-owl. "Get your lazy arse down here. I have a message for you to deliver."

_That's a first,_ The owl ruffled his feathers importantly and soared to his master._ Where to?_

"Connors," Damien whispered, attaching the envelope to Gabriel's leg. "I'm too busy to _take care _of his father, just so he could make off with the inheritance and the company. It also contains a note of warning about bothering me while I'm at school."

_Really? I thought you missed doing those things._ Gabriel stretched his wings and began flying around the room, waiting for the signal to leave.

"Maybe," Damien shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "But I have duties here."

_Duties? Bah!_ With that said, the skeptical owl took off.

Hermione Granger, fully awake and a bit troubled, climbed towards the Owlery, carrying a long roll of parchment containing stories of Hogwarts. She stopped at the edge of the stairs, dismayed that the owl she usually used was nowhere to be seen.

Tentatively, she began looking at the others, assessing them. Finally, she settled on a speedy-looking barn owl and was about to reach for it when...

"I wouldn't use that one, if I were you," Damien, his back to her, said from the window, silhouetted in the light. Hermione nearly jumped in surprise. "He's not very reliable. Take the snowy female, she's smart for a bird."

"Erm," Hermione bit her lip, unsure of what to say. "Thanks, I guess... I didn't see you there."

_Of course you wouldn't._ "Hmmm." He turned so that she could see his profile now, strong and a bit sharpish. "What are you doing here, Granger? Are you sending off another dragon to get me into trouble?"

"N-no," Hermione's faced flamed in humiliation and anger. "You - you..." She sniffed haughtily. "As a matter of fact, I'm sending a letter to my mother."

"Really now?"

"Yes," Hermione looked away, but continued to speak. "She gets very lonely sometimes. Especially when I'm not there and she's all alone."

"Oh," Damien actually kind of...frowned. His eyes darted sidewards, as if trying to remember something, then turned to her again.

"What are _you_ doing here?" She asked, coming closer, wondering why _that "awful Santelli boy"_ was being nice all of a sudden.

Damien ignored her for a long while.

"I like it here," He said finally, getting off the windowsill he had been sitting on previously.

"Yeah," Hermione agreed weakly, looking around. "It would be a nice place to study in, if the owls weren't so noisy..."

"Study?" His voice was disbelieving and...almost cold. "Is that all you think about?"

"Of course not!" She protested, instantly defensive. "But it is important, especially with the exams so close. Surely you understand! You're at the top of our yea- "

His derisive scoff cut her off. She could feel the coldness emanating off him now, making her shiver. "There are more important things than your petty books and exams, Granger." He said stiffly, hatefully. "_like...Survival...and proving yourself to a world that doesn't care._"

And quick as a flash, he was already at the exit. "I'll be seeing you, muggleborn."

* * *

Neville was already there when Filch escorted the Slytherins to the entrance hall. The caretaker wanted to ensure that nobody escapes _this_ punishment. Chris and Hermione arrived last, being led by Percy, who was only to glad for revenge. Hermione glanced at Damien, who gave no sign of even recognizing her. 

From the entrance, they could see the luminous moon partly hidden by clouds. It was the type of night where muggles feel and _fear _the presence of magic. In the distance, a creature howled.

Filch brought them all outside to the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

"Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get this started!" Hagrid roared from behind the bush outgrowth, his massive form hidden by the trees' shadows. "Dumbledore wan's this finshed by ternight."

Malfoy stopped dead in his tracks while Neville moaned at the sight of the ominous gnarled branches.

"The forest?!" Malfoy said in shock. "We can't go in there at night – there's all sorts of things in there - werewolves, I've heard."

Hagrid came striding towards them, carrying a crossbow and a quiver of arrows. At his feet was his pet of a boarhound, Fang. "C'mon! I've bin waitin' fer half an hour! An' there's more'n werewolves there, Malfoy, mind ye."

"I'm not going in there!" Malfoy said, a bit panicky. Damien nudged him painfully( "Shut up!")

"Yer goin' in or yer expelled! 'Onestly, I'll be glad to be rid of ye!" Hagrid roared, nearing the end of his patience. Malfoy stared angrily at the ground, as though willing it to bury the half-giant.

"Look there," Hagrid said when they were fairly in, pointing to a narrow trail of shining stuff. "See that stuff shinin' on the ground? That's unicorn blood. There's a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by summat. We're gonna try an' fin' the poor thing, put it out o' its mis'ry. I'll be doin' the actual killin' as I don' think any o' yeh can...yer know...kill..."

Chris gulped. "What if it was werewolf who hurt it? What if it's still there?"

"It's not full moon tonight, for Merlin's sake." Damien rolled his eyes.

"It's not easy ter catch a unicorn, powerful magic creatures." Hagrid said, trying to dissipate the tension between the two boys. "E'en werewolves can't run that fast as to 'arm 'em."

"So what is it?" Hermione asked. "I've read 'Fantastic Beasts' and..."

A sudden movement in the bushes caught their attention. Hagrid lifted his crossbow, waiting to impale someone.

"Who's there?" He shouted, showing a certain lack of subtlety. "Show yourself – I'm armed!"

"Hagrid," a strong-looking centaur, who they later knew was Ronan, answered. "Students?"

Hagrid nodded, lowering the weapon. "We're lookin' for a hurt unicorn. Have you seen anytin'? D'yeh know if there's anythin' new and dangerous in 'ere?"

Ronan stared unblinkingly upward and sighed. "Mars is unusually bright tonight."

"It is, unusually bright..." another centaur, a fiercer one, Bane, appeared. "Ronan, we must be off. _He _does not wish us to be here."

"I know, yet, I could not resist. It has been foretold in so many prophecies that I must see for myself." Ronan said almost apologetically, a vague expression on his face.

"What're yeh talking' 'bout?" Hagrid asked, confused and agitated. "Is there somethin' in the forest that shouldn' be here?"

"The forest holds many secrets," Ronan said in a low and harsh whisper. "We must depart. Remember...Mars."

And they were gone.

"Never," Hagrid said irritably, trudging on. "get a straight answer out o' a centaur. Ruddy stargazers."

They soon reached a fork in the trail, both options looking equally bad. At Hermione's suggestion, they split up: Hermione, Chris and Hagrid went in one direction; Draco, Damien, Neville and Fang went the other.

"Sure..." Draco sneered. "The dog''ll probably be the only one they'll come back for. They don't care about the rest of us."

Green sparks for unicorn, Red sparks for trouble. If that fails, _run_ and run away fast.

"I bet if we sneak up on Longbottom here ad scare him, he'll wet his pants." Malfoy laughed, unsuccessfully trying to hide his anxiety.

"Sod off," Neville stuttered. He was outnumbered two to one. Fang didn't seem to like him either.

"Listen to him, Draco," Damien tut-tutted. "If you don't stop, Longbottom'll probably go home crying to his grandma about 'big, bad Slythetins'."

Neville choked. And again, all was silent except for the twigs cracking under their shoes.

They walked a straight path nearly thirty minutes, going deeper into the heart of the forest. It was getting quieter as they walked, the night sounds fading away to nothingness, like a creature waiting to pounce. The trees were bigger and somehow more...alive...and watching them. Fang's ears stood on alert.

"Look – " Damen said suddenly, gripping the two other boys and pulling them back. He pointed to a gap in the trees, where something beyond was glowing albeit faintly. They went closer.

A unicorn was dead on the ground, its gleaming white fur starkly contrasting with the darkness of the forest floor.

"It's dead," Draco gasped, stepping away from the corpse. He stepped on a rather large twig that cracked loudly.

Quirrel appeared before them, his wand pointed precariously at Draco's throat. He relaxed slightly when he saw who it was.

"I am looking for the beast that did this," Quirrel explained...conveniently. "You students are too deep in the forest for comfort. You must leave now! There is danger afoot!"

Neville let out a terrible scream and bolted, Fang at his heel.

Quirrel inclined his head. "At lest he's not going in the direction to the Acromantula's nest, or it would mean a lot of paperwork and unneccessary investigation."

"Get out of here, you two. Tell Hagrid I took care of the unicorn and that he'd better stop going in here if he knows what's best for him." He then ordered, putting his hood up, obscuring his face. "Had you gone any further, you would have stumbled upon seven of the Dark Lord's curse-breakers, _Inner Circle members_."

Draco gave a small sigh of relief, unsure if it was from the narrow escape from the Death Eaters or the fact that the 'danger afoot' wasn't werewolves.

"It's you who've been killing the unicorns then?" Damien asked without even a flinch at the mention of the infamous circle of Voldemort's most 'trusted'.

"Aye, stupid creatures keep disrupting our werewolves. 'Tis a pity to kill them, such _pure_ innocent creatures..." Quirrel said, a terrible smile on his lips. "I best be off. The half-giant's looking for you, I expect. Longbottom was certainly loud enough. I hope he didn't fall into one of my traps..."

His voice faded as he apparated away.

Draco let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"I never knew the Dark Lord was working so close to Hogwarts," Draco remarked as they sent up green sparks. "This mission must be really important...curse-breakers...wow..."

"You don't think they'll all try to get it in an ambush, do you?" Damien asked, a worried frown creasing his brow.

"Don't be stupid," Draco told him for the _first_ time in his life. "Slytherins never _ambush._"

End. I realize the story is quite slow at his point. It gets better, in my opinion since I already know the whole of it. But who cares about my opinion anyway?


	18. Chapter 18

Yes, I changed my writing style. For full info, see my profile. SylvanD, where're those chapters you promised?! Lord, I'm heartbroken. sniff.

Disclaimer: HP is not mine. But if you insist, I will accept him with open arms.

Into the Hellhole

End-of-term exams were as grueling as the time spent studying for it. It didn't help that they were held inside sweltering classrooms on hot summer days where the heat was enough to render brain damage. Did any ever consider that?

The Defense against the Dark Arts had been amazingly grueling. The first year curriculum ("Introduction to Defensive Magic") included the basics of defense, spell history, amulets and other protective artifacts, and a nice beating on instinct and resourcefulness.

"_Defensive Magic is not all about simply waving your wand. It's about guts, skill and a determination to survive!" Quirrel used to say in a voice that made the class jump. "You don't memorize a bunch of difficult spells. Use your head! Every simple spell can be lethal if you know how to use it! Every little object you have on you may mean the difference between victory and defeat. When you're out there, fighting, even the smallest factor, such as what you've eaten for breakfast, can be used for you or against you."_

Quirrel made sure a little bit of each lesson was on his test, from "Why is Defense important?" to "What are the different ways to killing a troll? Be creative".

Damien breezed through it easily, as did Chris ("Did'ya see that last question, Ron mate? I'm going to get a perfect score for sure!"). Hermione Granger would've probably done well too, only if she weren't so frantic.

The next day, after finishing the series of transfigurations McGongall made do, Damien inclined his head to see the Draco's cool exterior slipping off as he agitatedly tried to remember how to transfigure a worm into a leaf. ("I swear it was _Mesophy-_ something!") It was the toughest practical of the year.

Their last exam was History of Magic. It, of course, was entirely written. Students groaned at the _single_ question 'Give one decisive event in Ancient Magical History and, in your opinion, its effect on the Magical World today', thinking how useless it had been to memorize up all those names and dates, not to mention the effort of finding someone who actually _had_ notes.

Finally, after an hour or two of answering, the first years were finally free to enjoy the rest of the week, leaving off to la-la land where exams never happened and everyone was blissfully ignorant.

Damien had left early, only a few moments after Potter (who, no doubt, wrote about _himself_) did. The dark-haired boy was already by the lake, talking once again to himself, when his housemates came out.

"You could have waited," Malfoy scowled, dropping his book bag on the grass.

"Yeah, Santelli," Blaise plopped down next to him. "We Slytherins _never_ abandon our own." He said in a sarcastic tone.

"What and miss up a chance to see the giant squid cart off Weasley?" Damien glanced to the other side of the Black Lake, face stoic, where a group of people watched as a group of boys played with the creature. "I think not."

"I hope it eats him," Pansy smiled evilly. "He's so uncouth, calling me a bulldog the other day, I wonder why their family hadn't been ostracized from pureblood society. Honestly –"

"Tht's enough, Pansy," Draco said calmly. Pansy quieted at once, though still throwing hateful glares at Weasley.

"Anyway," Theodore Nott began excitedly. "Does anyone know what's happening tonight?"

Draco hissed at Nott to be quiet while everyone else shrugged.

"Whom?" Damien's eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

"Here," Draco took a letter out from inside his pocket and handed it over, looking around to make sure nobody saw or heard anything. "I meant to tell you this morning but I forgot. Burn the letter after reading, will you?"

It was from Draco's father, obviously one of many copies, which cautioned him to remain in the Slytherin common room that night. Almost every Slytherin child received one. Draco's eyes warned Damien against asking any questions while the others were still around. _Someone_ obviously had inside information.

"Right," he burned the letter with a quick Incendio. "Obviously, Nott, I haven't a clue about what's happening."

* * *

"They're coming tonight?" Damien frowned, once they were back in the relative safety of the dormitory. There was genuine worry and frustration in his eyes. "What about Dumbledore? I doubt that they'd be able to get past his security wards."

"Dumbldore had been fooled into a nonexistent meeting with the Peruvian Minister of Magic." Draco said, a bit smugly. He finally knew something before his friend did. "Brilliant, isn't it? Of course, he invited quite a few members of the Order to keep his castle safe."

Damien opened his mouth to say something but Draco hushed him.

"As for the wards, Snape and Quirrel got a hold of this 'vanishing cabinet' from Mr. Borgin (useful ally that one). It creates a sort of portal into Hogwarts, _an infiltration like no other_, and one that couldn't even be detected. I heard they got a giant reward for that, those selfish gits! I wish I had thought of it!" A wild sort of happiness appeared on Draco's face, and underneath it, hunger. The sort that drives men to do impossible unthinkable things. "Imagine the glory!"

Damien had seen those expressions often enough.

"Stop babbling, Draco," He said smoothly, not the least bit perturbed. "Let's go congratulate them."

_I want to know the details of their plan. _Damien thought darkly, the wheels in his in turning. _Make sure it coincides with mine. It had better._

They haven't walked for about five minutes when they found Snape, standing just outside McGonagall's office, talking with the Gryffindor Trio. The three looked extremely pale and guilty.

Severus had an odd, twisted smile on his face.

"Professor Snape, may we have a word with you?" Draco strode confidently into the fringe. "I think I did something wrong with my potion…"

"A moment, Draco, Potter and his friends are currently being told what happens to hard-headed first years who wander off into forbidden corridors, trying to get themselves killed. If I hadn't arrived in time..."

Ron gulped visibly.

* * *

"Now, what do you want?" Snape asked stiffly. Any other day, he would've been utterly glad after taking off a truckload of points from Gryffindor and handing out several detentions but now, he was looking more annoyed than ever. "I know for a fact that you know you made your potion well, Mr. Malfoy, _too_ well I might add… I have more than enough to do at the moment and you are currently wasting my time."

"I'm not as stupid as you think I am," Draco said sullenly then hastily changed the subject. "Who is coming tonight? Can we come? Is it true that you and Quirrel were given – "

"Silencio," Draco's lips still moved but no sound came out. Snape looked down at him. "It seems that you've forgotten your Slytherin ways, Draco. Hogwarts has ears everywhere."

"He hasn't, Professor, we know your office is well-warded against eavesdroppers. A slytherin like you..." Damien smirked, crossing his arms over his chest and regarding their teacher expectedly.

A momentary sensation unlike anything he'd ever known gripped the Potions Master, like being pulled away from reality. It went just as quickly as it came and was immediately forgotten, leaving him quite confused. Damien smirked, as if nothing happened.

"Very well," Snape said, after steadying himself. "You can _not _come. Letters have already been given to Death Eater children to remain safe in case we run into pesky Order members – _yes_, they are here. I believe neither of you can handle a battle yet."

"What you can do, though, is tail that insufferable Potter and his cronies and make sure they don't give us any trouble. I reckon he knows about the stone. _Parents probably think that their beloved little boy deserves to know everything._" Snape sniffed in disdain. "Meddlesome Gryffindors."

"Why don't you just kill Potter? You can do it without much effort, especially now since the old coot won't be around to save his arse." Draco asked, wondering for a long time now why the heck Snape didn't just kill the boy.

"Because the Dark Lord claims the _boy-who-lived_ as his to kill," Snape said with a grim tone. "I'll be perfectly content to finish off only the brat's father, in the mean time."

_Both Potters are mine, Professor._

"Well, go on, you two," Snape spat at them. "Best remember the dark lord does not tolerate sloppy work, even in the most negligible of duties. Better get a move on if you want to follow Potter, and make sure _you're not seen_."

* * *

"Father's too valuable as a Ministry contact," Draco answered silently when Damien asked him why his father wasn't joining the so-called _Mirror Mission. _"And he's not much of a curse-breaker. They're going to try breaking Dumbledore's spells on the mirror."

"And if it doesn't work? Breaking spells takes ages, from what I know."

"I have no idea," Draco stopped pacing abruptly, waited, then walked around again.

They were stalking the portrait of the Fat Lady, the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. _Fat Lady for fatheads, how appropriate._

"You don't think they have an invisibility cloak too?" Draco asked worriedly.

"I don't think so. Last I heard, Potter Sr. is still using his to infiltrate Knockturn Alley." Damien replied, leaning on the nearby wall.

The swinging of a portrait caught their attention. Damien rushed behind a suit of armor while Draco remained still, invisible.

"I can't believe I just did that to Neville!" Hermione was saying miserably, large tears pooling in her eyes. "I used magic against someone. I am horrible horrible –"

"You had to do it," Chris said, already walking towards the staircase. "We'll explain everything to him later. He'll understand when he knows what is at stake. Now come on!"

They scurried off – closely followed by two invisible enemies – (strangely) _away_ from the Forbidden corridor.

Along the way, they encountered Mrs. Norris, the most hated feline in contemporary history.

"Brilliant," Draco murmured as he crept closer towards the feline, thinking of revenge. Grinning maniacally, he kicked her with all the strength he can muster. The cat went flying towards the Gryffindor's direction, hissing and spitting, hit a stone wall and falling in a heap. It let out an audible wail of rage.

"Who's there?" three voices asked simultaneously, shining their wands at the three students.

"Chris?" one of them, distinctly male, asked. The wand made a slashing movement and the candles around instantly lit themselves.

James Potter, Sirius Black, Mundungus Fletcher, all wearing their Phoenix robes, walked towards them, looking surprised.

"Chris? What are you doing here at this time?! Don't you see how dangerous it is?!" James scolded his son. "I told you to stop getting yourself into trouble! What will your mother think?"

"But Dad, we were going to owl you! Snape's trying to steal the stone!" Chris said frantically. Ron and Hermione nodded their heads fervently in agreement.

"Snape?" James' face darkened. "I should've known that _slimeball_ would've had something to do with this. It's a good thing I told you about that stone."

"What are you doing here, Dad?" Chris asked suddenly. "Is mom here too?"

"We've intercepted an owl for one of the Slytherins – can't tell whom exactly – saying to stay safe in their dorms. It's enough proof to check things up in here, especially with Dumbledore discussing dark wizards in Peru." Sirius answered his godson. He turned to James. "We have to get to the third floor quick. They may already be there."

James turned to his son. "Get back to your dormitories now; we'll have everything under control. Your mom is in the other side of the castle with Moody and Remus, patrolling too. Other teams, I don't know where they are right now, but I can assure you they're here. Snape's not going to make off with the stone. Everything's gonna be alright."

Chris' face melted in relief, as did Ron's and Hermione's. They returned to the dormitories, smiling to themselves. Chris glanced worriedly back one last time, hoping he'd still have his parents the next day. _Oh please._

From a distance, Draco's face pulled into a worried frown.

"We have to warn them! Potter informed his father." Draco growled out. He started to walk briskly towards the third floor, dragging Damien.(_Draco! What have I told you about bossing me around!_) "We have to get there first."

"No, Draco, wait…" Damien hissed as he restrained his friend, a bit difficult since they were of the same size. "Something doesn't feel right…"

"Don't be an idiot!" Draco gnashed at him. "We have to hurry or else they'll –"

The three Order members looked piercingly in their direction, hearing the invisible struggle. Their eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Show yourself. _Petrificus! Levicorpus!_" Sirius Black shouted and two jets of light came reeling towards the boys. They managed to avoid the first one and got hit by the second. It was quite difficult to dodge spells under an invisibility cloak, you know. They were levitated off the ground and the cloak fell off.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the Malfoy spawn and his friend." Black sneered. "I seem to recall Chris telling me about them."

"Is this enough evidence to cart that bastard off to Azkaban?" James smiled darkly. "Pity, Lucius wasted a great part of his family fortune to escape that prison and his son comes right to us. Don't you know it's illegal to spy on Order members, young Malfoy?"

Draco glared at them all, knowing he was defeated.

"The Dark Lord will make you pay! Allegiance to the dark lord!" He shouted like the last warrior in a losing battle, teeth bared. He futilely tried to claw at the face of the nearest man. Feet kicking in the air.

The three, in a very uncharacteristic way, nearly collapsed in laughter.

With a wave of a wand, their faces collapsed into smoke, revealing the darkly sinister faces of Quirrel, Nott and Yaxley. The Phoenix emblems disappeared from the black fabric of their robes.

"Well, young mister Malfoy seems very supportive of the dark lord. It's Azkaban for you, spawn of Lucius!" Alexander Nott, who'd been impersonating Potter, cackled.

Draco flushed hotly and glared at the men. He then realized his place then looked sheepish.

"You've shown great loyalty, Draco." Quirrel, who had been acting as Mundungus, said. He floated them down. "Had we been real Order members, you certainly would have been imprisoned. I daresay our master would be pleased at such loyalty."

Draco beamed at this. He turned to gloat at Damien, who shrugged.

"Although you showed a fair amount of Gryffindor recklessness…" Yaxley smirked, blowing Draco's bubble. "Such stupidity won't get you anywhere"

"Have you got the stone yet?" Draco asked Quirrel weakly, too flustered to meet his eye.

"The others are already there, waiting for us." Quirrel answered, scooping up the invisibility cloak. "They've already _stunned_ the Order members. An alert's been placed if we use unforgiveables, unless we want to trigger an unpleasant stream of Aurors into the school." He said in distaste. "And the Dark Lord doesn't want that."

"Indeed," Nott agreed, face unreadable. "He wants it to be over and done with quickly and quietly. Quite unlike him..."

"Weren't you the one who said even the simplest spells can be lethal, Professor?" Damien sneered, speaking for the first time. "You could've eliminated the Order with some first-year charms."

"Yes, but _only_ with a good amount of power, which we can't afford to waste." Quirrel sneered back.

"Are we allowed to come?" Draco asked excitedly.

"No," the three said with finality.

* * *

A cascade of melodious notes played from the Harp. It quickly incapacitated the hellish Beast, who, seonds ago, tried to bite off Snape's head.

"What's next?" An extremely pale woman with hollowed features, Morrison, asked, looking warily at the trapdoor.

"A path of Angelove," Quirrel growled. "Not very strong though, everyone here can fight it, I'm sure." He looked tentatively at the two students. "Strong bushes are rarely available."

He smiled cryptically, then jumped. Everyone soon followed.

It was the sweetest, safest, most wonderful sensation he had ever felt. Damien felt as though he was being cradled, so protected, maybe even loved. All worries were gone, the pain and the fury and the total anguish.

But then, his consciousness suddenly took over and reality set in. he felt disgusted with himself for letting his mind be taken over by the plant's magic, even for a few seconds. He opened his eyes and saw the pure-white, feathery-petal embrace of the Angelove bush. he lay still.

Snape suddenly rose from the cluster of white, looking disgusted with himself.

"Why didn't you just leave the cabinet in the last chamber? We could've directly gone in, Quirrel!" He raged.

Quirrel regarded him with a cold look, then grinned maliciously. "It's too risky. What took you so long, Severus?"

Snape's black eyes flashed dangerously. "It was…stronger than I expected. A lesser man would've succumbed…I'm worried Draco might not be able to fight it."

"He can," Quirrel nodded assuredly. "I have been observing these two for a while now. They both have enough sense of reality and enough bottled-up anger…"

"What is that plant?!" An dark-skinned Death Eater suddenly burst out. "I never felt anything like it! It's almost worst than the Imperius!"

"Aye, you felt _loved_, isn't that nice?" Quirrel said, almost laughing. "It's Angelove, as I said earlier, a variation of the flowers the Lily-people used to eat, _terribly addictive_. With a touch, it can fill a person with a feeling so unbelievably warm and happy that its victims chose to fester in it until they died. One must have _not only willpower_ to escape it (like the Imperius) but also –"

"Hatred," Snape finished. "To escape, one would've to be willing to reject all that_ pleasantness_ and go back to his hateful reality, reject every good thing he ever felt. Only people with no single good feeling in their bodies can resist a fully-grown bush. I do wonder why they would use it...it's not like we're innocent enough to be affected."

"Why did you bring them?" Snape asked. He had been angry and shocked when Nott and his company appeared, two persons in excess.

"Some curses require human sacrifice to break, Severus." Quirrel answered, expressionless. "They were willing to come."

Slowly, in the span or ten minutes or so, the Death Eaters began escaping the plant's deceptive embrace. Only Draco was left now, looking blissful. Damien got out about two minutes after the last Death Eater. Quirrel looked at him curiously, muttering something about 'too quick'...

"Can we not kill the plant?" one person impatiently asked. the Malfoy boy seemed to be going nowhere.

"No," Snape said forcefully. "That would cause the plant to go into a suicide stage, the so-called _'Damnation'_ wherein an inferno would destroy everything within ten meters of it and that's about the size of this chamber. We will wait...or maybe just leave him here. But then, Lucius would have my head."

"Hmmm," Snape turned to Damien, and had enough sense not to pry. "Santelli, the Headmaster and I had a talk about you earlier. Your records are quite _rocky_, not a single proof of ancestry, not even a bloody Gringotts key…I ought to warn you that Albus will be wanting to talk it with you soon, perhaps directly after he returns."

"I'll talk to him." Damien clipped, already planning how to handle the Headmaster. "I'll be careful."

It was about two minutes later when Draco hopped out, looking resolute.

The next chamber was bathed in total darkness. Once everyone was inside, the door slammed and the room revolved enough times to make anyone puke. The torches flickered on, bathing the room in an eerie blue glow. Multiple doors adorned the walls.

"This is Flitwick's work. Once you touch a door, you'll be pulled inside and there's no going back. The previous room will have been incinerated." Quirrel warned. "I managed to bleed enough information from him…with the help of Veritaserum."

Past the vicious labyrinth, a giant arena awaited. They had not gone far into it when massive lava golems, wielding sharp fiery weapons started marching. They looked as dangerous as hell.

"Finally," one of the curse-breakers breathed. "A real battle. _Explodia!_"

A couple of advancing golem exploded, spraying them with sand and small chunks of rock. "Rupturis!" shouted another, while performing a complicated wand movement. Three golems fell in heaps of sand. "Lizzaris!" "Sabbialis!" "Aqualus!"

The golems went down by the dozen. If this was all the Light had to offer, they were seriously underestimating Voldemort's forces.

"Sparites!" Morrison said as she blasted the head golem, a hellish monster called Geryon, stronger, faster and definitely ferocious, apart.

Snape had taken to simply restraining his two students back while the others fought.

"Mine's is next," Quirrel said, going in the next room first. He placed the troll (the biggest they had ever seen) in a catatonic trance with a snap of his fingers, allowing them to pass by easily.

"Mine," Snape said curtly as two great fires rose behind and before them. The magical flames began advancing towards them. There were rows upon rows of potions there, all in different bottles, and three rolls of floating parchment which contained clues on which bottle contained safety. Only two bottles did not contain poison or other similarly harmful potions. One had only enough time to read the list, make a haphazard guess and _panic_.

"Drink this up." Snape had brought a large jug of icy-blue potion. "Don't even bother reading that…it is absolutely useless."

"We're making excellent time," Yaxley observed as they walked like phantoms through the black fire. "What's next, Quirrel?"

"The mirror," Quirrel said with a cryptic smile. "You'll find it's not as easy as the others."

"Finally," Nott said with a greedy gleam in his dark eyes as he eyed the last protection on the stone.

In front of them, in all its golden glory, stood the Mirror of Erised.

* * *

While deep beneath the castle, Death eaters were making off with one of the greatest heists in Hogwarts History, a ghost of a Professor was grading exam papers.

He kept muttering complaints under his breath about 'damned students' and 'worthless essays' when one answer cauhgt his eye.

_Santelli's, eh? _He'd heard about him. Brilliant, said some teachers. Scary, said others. He read the essay, eyes scanning over the neat script.

_Muggle Biblical History tells the tale of two brothers. Cain and Abel were born to Adam and Eve, the origins of both man and wizard kind (through a different line). Cain was a farmer and Abel was a shepherd. They were successful in their own right and both very much wanted to please 'god' (the muggle god in Christian religion; goes by different names). In times of offering, Cain served up the bounty of his harvest, teeming with vitality, life if we're going to be crude. Abel offered up death, a slain lamb dripping with with blood. The lamb was always the youngest in his flock. Every year, 'god' favored Abel's offering. He blessed it with heavenly fire while Cain's, his pride and hardwork, went ignored. Finally, he accepted that their impartial 'god' favored his brother. God liked blood, did he? "So be it," Cain thought and damned himself. He killed Abel, the first murder in history. 'God' realized what he'd done and cursed him. Cain lived the rest of his life as an outcast: hated, feared and forsaken. Was it his fault? Is it wrong to be envious of a sibling who'd always been loved a little more since the beginning? Was it fair to condemn a man to want for glory? _

_It was this event which first solidified the abstract concepts of 'good' and 'evil'. They would evolve and evolve and set down the rules of today. They would divide the world and history in half. Good and evil were judgements. Biased judgements. _

_They still affect society today. Look around…in the war, there is dark and light. _

Binns continued skimming the essay, getting very troubled indeed.

End. In case you're wondering why this chapter is so, I dunno, quick in the making and doesn't seem to have much to do for the general plot. Its only a transition chapter. One I can always remake so and so.


	19. Chapter 19

We just finished a _ton_ of exams (that's why I wasn't able to update earlier) and I'm in the right kind of depressing mood to write this chapter. I'm glad you liked the essay, it was an on-the-spot thing but it's a major hint on where the story is going. Oh yeah, plot of BL? Finally finished! (And it would be _sooo _much better if it were slash. SylvanD is giving me hell for it too)

Disclaimer: Sure, sure, Rub it in that I do not own Harry Potter.

Sticks and Stones

"_Sticks and stone may break my bones, but names shan't ever hurt me."_

"This is it?!" Freya Morrison, circling the gold-embossed mirror, set upon high stone, sneered. "This is Dumbledore's protection?! I'd expected…_more._"

"Do not be as so arrogant as to underestimate Albus Dumbledore," Snape told her curtly. "Even _I _have to admit how ingenious it was to use Erised, certainly one of his better ideas…"

"How does it work?" Erasmus Sadit asked, frowning slightly. He was Gringott's prized curse-breaker in Egypt in his day…when he was still thought to be alive. "I have never encountered anything like it."

Nott coughed loudly and muttered something about 'pyramids and tombs' and being ignorant of current times. The tall black man glared at him, wand twitching.

"This is not a time for quarreling," Yaxley said icily. "Our Lord trusted us on this mission and we must act worthily. Quirrel, how does the enchantment work?"

"The Mirror of Erised, with Dumbledore's modifications, works such that it only shows the stone's location when the person who looks into it wants to _find_ the stone."

A dark-haired death eater opened his mouth indignantly to say something but Snape silenced him with a look.

"Find it, but _not_ use it. Otherwise, we have to chip away – piece by piece – hundreds of enchantments, accumulated over the centuries, on the mirror." Quirrel's scowl deepened. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, are what you're here for." He finished with sullen sarcasm.

"Remarkably simple, is it not?" Snape smirked mordantly at the horrified expression on Nott's face. "I'm glad you now see the situation with showing out your ignorance."

"So, that's it, whenever we look into the mirror, we only see ourselves giving the stone to our master, and not where it is," Quirrel sighed, glancing wistfully at the mirror as though expecting it to suddenly hand over the stone. "Brilliant, really…quite impossible to circumvent…" He clapped his hands then, and turned to the others.

"Get to work then."

* * *

"Uh, I think they went wrong somewhere," Draco didn't have to say it. From the amount of swearing and shouting going on, it was pretty much obvious.

The thrill of their adventure had so far in exhilarating, to say the least. The novelty, however, was wearing off as the chance of success became less and less. The Dark Lord would find some way to implicate all of them, innocent by-standers and all.

The Death Eaters too felt failure creeping upon them and their movements grew more desperate, almost _manic. _Their lips moved silently as they mouthed incantations, looking pained. Once or twice, a surge of magic went through the air, signifying the collapsing of a major shield. A Death Eater or two had fainted from sheer magical drain. Good thing Snape came armed with Rejuvenating Potions.

The Death Eater with an obscured face, which looked as though it might have been handsome once, cut himself for the third time and made the blood offering to the mirror.

That was when all hell broke loose.

Instead of doing was it was supposed to the do, the mirror's golden exterior suddenly crumbled into the ground. A vast expanse of liquid darkness began emanating from the spot.

"What the f- " The curse-breakers jumped back to avoid being swallowed by the nothingness. The spread stopped. Where the mirror used to be, a gaping abyss now was. A dark lake of mocking reflections.

Morrison let out a string of expletives that no pureblood lady should be capable of.

"What happened?!" She rounded on Erasmus, the poor guy. She shouted in a voice which expressed exactly how she thought he was too blame for all the misfortune in the world, and it rang clear through the underground. "The Ecalysonian incantation, you said! This was your plan?!"

"Well," He replied gruffly, used perhaps to the rantings. "It was the quickest way to get to the stone, you never specified."

Freya looked murderous. Yaxley intervened before Avada's were exchanged, maybe just in the nick of time too, for the others were looking just as vicious towards the Egyptian.

"Stop it." He commanded forcefully. "The problem now is: how to get the stone from under that lake."

"No!" A broad-shouldered Death Eater joined the fray. "The problem is that this _fool_ turned the enchantments into liquid instead of breaking them! Damn it! Are we supposed to dive in there and get the stone?!"

"That was my idea," Erasmus replied coldly. "I hadn't expected that –"

"That we'd see about a hundred stones down there?! Because that's what I see when I looked into that damned thing!"

"I did not expect the Covetainte effect to take place!"

Snape looked up from whatever he was seeing (his expression half disgust and half dreadful longing) the lake at this. "Covetainte? Isn't that –"

"The old glory-immortality argument," Damien cut in neatly. Head snapped to where he and Draco had been sitting for the last two or so hours. They did not seem to remember the two boys existed. "_One could not have both_. It's the Elixir of Life coming into play."

"Smart, that one," Yaxley almost smiled, but it seemed that he forgot how to.

"The smartest," Snape said, not without the usual sarcasm.

"Ahem."

"Okay," Freya took a deep breath and suddenly smiled ferally. "Since it was Erasmus' idea, he goes for a dip first…"

It was worse than any of them could've imagined. No Death Eater went farther than several feet before the surface when he or she began to drift without purpose, almost drowning several times.

"_Dwelling on dreams and forgetting to live"_ That was the mirror's doing. No one, after all, was invincible to desire.

"Let us try," Draco piped up, standing up and looking self-conscious but determined to help. The sheer glory of finding the stone was shining in his gray eyes. "I only want to find the stone more than anything!"

Snape made to stop him but Quirrel held him back. There was now a quiet despair in his dark eyes, an inhuman fear of failure and death (surely the Dark Lord would be _most_ disappointed).

Snape's hand tightened into a fist and he nodded for Draco to come. _If Draco was so desperate to please, then so be it_…even if he dies in the process.

Damien shifted uneasily as he looked from Draco to the vast expanse of the pool. A nagging feeling in the back of his mind, instinct or whatever it was called, protested against the blond's early demise. _It was not part of the Plan._

Draco caught his eye and looked at him questioningly, as though wondering why he didn't offer to dive too.

"I'd rather not, thanks." Damien shrugged. He did not like swimming. Never had ever since that trip with Niccolo to the Pacific (because, honestly, five hours in shark-infested waters tends to make you rather hateful towards great bodies of water). Even in his so-called 'training' where – never mind. He simply _didn't_ like it.

Meanwhile, Draco, still in his school robes, looked into the water. He saw a fleeting image of an immensely proud-looking Lucius and jumped in.

Snape rushed to the edge anxiously, taking care not to touch the water. Draco would die if the surface was disturbed.

Damien stared down to where splashing movements could be sensed, looking mildly interested. Discreetly enough so that no one noticed, he created small vortex in the spell-water, just big enough to surround the young Malfoy. He took over Draco's mind.

There was nothingness around him, the same eerie _nothingness_ that he saw in the mirror. He swam faster towards the bottom.

A pinprick, only one pinprick, of blood-red was in the distance. He made a grab for it –

_And broke through the surface._ Damien let out a sharp breath as he slammed back into his own mind.

In front of him, the pool was already churning violently…and it spewed Draco out, drenching everyone wonderfully. The mirror was broken.

And Draco was _elated_. He jumped up and down while holding the blood-red stone up high.

He remembered nothing of course, except maybe drifting away and suddenly finding the stone in his hands.

Quite a few jaws went slack.

Finally, after a shocked silence, Snape said. "Well, Someone's father will be very proud."

Draco beamed as though his life's dream had just come true.

* * *

"What does the Dark Lord want the stone for, Professor?" Damien asked.

They – Snape, Draco and him – were sitting in the Professor's office. It was nearly five o'clock in the morning and drinking a coffee-like brew that was doing wonders for their souls. Snape had 'bid' the two boys for a talk before sending them to bed – _or__breakfast._

The others had gone, escaped through the Vanishing cabinet, without the Order any wiser. It would be a bit of a nasty shock when James and the others would wake up. Snape looked positively tickled at the thought.

"Precaution," The Potions Master answered, voice unreadable as usual. "Regulus (Snape spat out the name) – precious few had known his inside track with the Dark Lord – had _turned_, work of his filthy muggle-loving brother I expect. He stole something of great importance and, I fear, destroyed it. The Dark Lord's dealt with him, very severely I might add, _he was better off dead_. But Master remains unsure whether or not he disclosed certain pieces of valuable information to Dumbledore or had time to. Believe me, you're best not knowing."

"What will happen to Professor Quirrel now?" Draco asked, unwilling to have talks of 'the dangerous and the forbidden and thebest-not-knowing' during his glory-time.

Their ex-DADA teacher had gone with the Death Eaters, his mission at Hogwarts finished.

"He's a member of the Inner Circle now, a long run from the disillusioned young man he used to be, with ridiculous ideas of _good and evil_. He'll also be training our troll armies now, not a very pleasant occupation, I expect." Snape poured some tea for himself, his casual manner giving nothing away.

"So that leaves you alone, huh?" Draco said. "The old coot'll be surprised to see what Professor Quirrel – Adrian, now that he's not a teacher – really is."

Snape shook his head at the question. _The Dark Lord will send another spy, and more will come._

"He'll be even more surprised that we managed to get the stone," Damien said, more darkly than necessary. "After the lengths he took to keep it safe for his friend, Nicholas."

"Yes, Nicholas Flamel," Snape frowned. "Perhaps one of the most brilliant alchemists in history. Too bad he had to go."

"What do you mean?" Draco paled. "We didn't kill them, did we?"

"Yes, that' where the others had gone off to as we're sitting here, making ourselves comfortable. He _is_ allied with Dumbledore, and the creation of another stone would be disastrous. He must be _disposed of._"

Draco paled. Years of being brought up in a dark household, or having a notorious Death Eater for a father did not prepare him for this prospect. He would be very quiet for the next few days.

"Draco, killing is not as easy as the innocent believe," Snape sighed with an evanescent glance at the other boy (who hadn't so much as flinched). "But it is necessary. We're in a war, after all. As Albus said, _Sacrifices must be made._"

"Yes," Damien agreed. "And besides, no one should be able to live forever."

* * *

_The next day._

Damien found himself in the History of Magic classroom, a fine time for it too, with the ruckus in the Great Hall. Students had panicked, thinking there had been a battle. Apparently, a bunch of Aurors had been found, quite incapacitated. They were dazed…and certainly not happy.

Damien caught a glimpse of Potter Sr. and company hurriedly making way towards the forbidden corridor for any chance that the invaders were still there.

"You wished to see me, Professor?"

Binns looked up from his contemplation. His eyes widened. For a moment there, the boy had looked…_inhuman_.

"Yes," he floated out of his 'seat' and took out a piece of parchment from his desk. This Binns was different from the droll, monotonous teacher no one listened to. "Your papers… it isn't every decade that I get one on biblical history. A pity, it seems rather interesting."

"People are afraid," Damien smiled knowingly. "It's so much easier to avoid things like that."

"What do you mean?"

Damien skimmed his essay and nodded, satisfied. "I mean, people are afraid that it might be false, something as influential as that. But, deep down, _they're just as afraid it might be true_."

"I see," Binns, his first name we shan't ever find out, said. He bade Damien to take a seat. This might take long. "You can learn many things from history. Have you ever heard of the Rupture-Unification Theory?"

"No," the Slytherin said with utmost sincerity. "Should I have?"

"I wouldn't have expected you to," Binns took the seat opposite him. They looked like a psychiatrist and patient. "It's a very old theory, without sufficient evidence to prove it. 'Good' and 'Evil', according to it, were once _basically_ _the same_. Rupture was the splitting, the moment Eva ate the forbidden fruit of knowledge, and thus caused the 'rift' you mentioned. You were right about them being products of the ability to judge and about the evolving…" He sighed deeply. "It was theorized that, one day, they will unite again. Humanity will be thrown into anarchy."

"Anarchy?" There was a disbelieving scoff in the word. An ugly sneer marred his fine features.

"I was afraid you wouldn't understand," Binns rose, losing his nerve. He was not a ghost for arguments. That' s why he kept his lessons boring, no more of those bloody debates over who came first. "Young ones like you have absolutely no idea of what's going on. I thought for sure you were different…"

"I'm sorry, Professor. Perhaps you shouldn't think so highly of me next time."

"Fine, fine," Binns waved him away angrily, expectations crushed. "Go, go, play Quidditch or twirl your wands or something horrid of that sort…"

_I should've known better than to expect humans to understand the aesthetic complexity of History._

* * *

Two weeks later and it was the end of the year. _How time flies when you're having fun or getting yourself killed._

The Quidditch finale had been a trifle boring. They merely steamrolled Ravenclaw without much physical injury (that honor was reserved for Gryffindors and sometimes, Hufflepuff). Davies had been a competent seeker if not for his vanity.

And so, Slytherin won the House Cup.

Slytherin was holding its serpent-like head high with pride and victory. The Great Hall was decked out in dark green and silver and one huge banner, adorned with the Slytherin serpent all hissing and flexing, bedecked the hall behind the staff table. It might've been a Death Eater gathering had the mood not been so cheery.

(Yes, despite the war and the recent loss of Flamel and his stone, hope still shone brightly and people were celebrating.)

Everyone had been talking animatedly of summer vacation when a hush fell over the Great Hall. Dumbledore had arrived from yet another journey into the unknown. He looked at the decorations with the smallest amount of disdain and proceeded to his seat.

A week ago, he had been quite livid to learn everything that had happened while he was away. Even Fawkes stayed away from him, oldest friend or not. The news of Flamel's death hit him quite hard. They had, after all, been together for a _long, long_ time.

The end-of-the-year speech was unnecessarily riveting, fused with solemn sorrow and strength and grave determination. It was a neutral speech, and children of Death Eaters were affected just as strongly.

Dumbledore just had to ruin it by ending with:

"Everyone will be going home this summer, some perhaps to broken homes, broken families…I therefore ask you all to remain strong in these trying times. Remember that good always prevails over evil. Light will always triumph against darkness."

Several people scowled. _What right did the old coot have to say that?_

"Well, moving on, the awarding of the house cup is in order…well done, Slytherin." Dumbledore turned to them, holding the House Cup.

Scowls vanished.

"However, recent events must be taken into count."

Scowls reappeared. Damien started. Beside him, Draco froze with his fork, loaded with beef and gravy, halfway to his mouth.

"For a number of dark texts stashed inside your common room, I take a hundred points from Slytherin."

McGonagall nodded fiercely. It had been she who'd raided their library.

"For not one, not two, but _three_ seventh year students found branded with _Dark Marks_, I remove a further hundred points from Slytherin." Dumbledore said gravely. Only yesterday, these three students were caught trying to get into Dumbledore's office. Needless to say, they were awaiting trial to be shipped off to Azkaban. "I am _very_ disappointed in you. Hogwarts is not a place for Dark Magic."

"Salazar Slytherin, a _founder_, of this school was a dark wizard." A sixth year, several seats down, sneered. Their house points were disappearing fast.

"On a happier note, I also have some point to dish out. I award fifty points _each _to Chris Potter, Ron Wesley, and Hermione Granger for attempting to save a valuable item of the Order. Regretfully, there attempts were not enough. But it was a show of the _finest_ courage I have ever seen in many years. These three, at their very young age, have shown the true spirit of the noble Gryffindor House."

Hermione blushed furiously, looking so very pleased with herself. Chris and Ron were patting each other on the backs.

Dumbledore continued, eyes twinkling. "I also give ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom, for the courage to stand up for what is right. It is this quality which makes men warriors of Light. Neville, you proved yourself worthy of your parents and they would've been so proud of you."

The hall roared with shouts from the Gryffindors, infused with laughter. Neville had burst into tears.

_Gryffindors were tied with Slytherin for first place_?! Draco sputtered in shock. Dumbledore wouldn't dare add another opoint if he knew what was best for him.

"And finally, I award ten points to Mr. Seamus Finnigan for _finally_ changing water into rum. I daresay Gryffindor will have no more problems with liquor supply for their parties."

His last works were drowned in an explosion of cheers from the red table. People were on their feet, stomping and shouting (Fred and George shouted something that sounded like 'F- you Slytherin!' but one can never be sure).

With a clap of Dumbledore's hands over the deafening applause, the hangings became gold and scarlet, with the towering Gryffindor lion replacing the serpent. It roared ferociously.

Chris and his friends were noisily banging their goblets as a few older students raised them on their shoulders.

Snape was white with rage. ("Why Dumbledore?! Why couldn't you give my students what is rightfully theirs even this once?!")

"They can't do this!" Draco hissed out. "Crazy biased old bastard!"

Around him, students broke out in similar cries of outrage and bitterness.

Damien didn't say anything but his eyes narrowed.

Had Draco looked any closer, he would have seen them glowing like fiery coals.

_Reminds me of…House Cup…Ball…taken…gave away what he worked so hard for…NEVER TAKE WHAT'S MINE…Rage…_

* * *

It was no big surprise when the exam results came out and Damien, Chris and Hermione were named best students in the year – in that order. It had been a shocker, for Hermione was usually so bad at practicals. She seemed almost afraid of using magic.

Then parchments were packed, quills were thrown away and owls were caged. It was farewell to Hogwarts and hello to freedom.

First year was over and no one will ever be the same again. Perhaps, in the years to come, people will look back into it and whisper among themselves, thinking many things.

"Have a good summer, Draco," Damien said quietly as they exited Platform 9 ¾. He was actually kind of nice and…_normal_…outside Hogwarts. "I'll write you sometime."

"You do that," the Malfoy heir nodded. He looked very odd, bordering on ridiculous, in muggle clothes. "But make sure it doesn't contain anything that may relate us to…you know… The ministry's been checking our mail ever since I can remember."

"I pity you," Damien shrugged unsympathetically, looking sideways along the station for a cab. He couldn't apparate with Draco around.

"Father's picking me up in a few minutes," Draco said. "Perhaps we could drop you off at… where the heck do you live anyway, Santelli?"

"London, I have my own place there. I've lived alone since my _father _died." He replied nonchalantly. It could not be determined whether it was carelessness or purpose which made him say it.

"And you never found the initiative to tell me that?!" Draco yelled with indfignance. "There's no way I'm letting you do that! You're going to spend the summer at my house!"

_And I had been looking forward to playing with my daggers again, _Damien sighed.

* * *

Not far behind them, a couple of Hufflepuffs were whispering nervously to each other.

"Did you hear about the Finnigans?"

"Yes, awful, isn't it?"

"Parents gone insane…killed their children… Must've been the Imperius curse…"

"But they haven't found anything, didn't they? It was as though it just _happened_. Death Eaters would've left something, the dark mark for instance…"

"But there wasn't anything, none at all. Well, except a lot of rum at the house…"

"The only one left of the family is that poor bloke from Gryffindor, Seamus or something…"

_End._

Whoa. Lots of spoilers here. Okay, I'm apologizing if anyone's offended by pokes at the Bible. I assure you, this is fiction. I don't appreciate people telling me I'm damned all the time.  I've re-written the Binns-Damien conversation because it gives too many things away. I'll post it later on. The "Seamus" part of this fic is borrowed from Arimanius (amazing fic but disturbing to some). I just had to borrow it. If anyone can guess why I used "sticks and stones" I'll post two chapters! Kudos to you, friends!


	20. Chapter 20

I'm so sorry I took so long to update! I've been busy lately (I am still a student, you know and absolutely _can't_ enjoy life at will). I'm actually supposed to do a lab report right now. but I love you all too much, isn't that sweet? (gags)

I hope this'll be okay…I'm not really in the proper mood (angry and despairing where I usually write best) right now. And, I dunno, I don't like the feel of this chapter.

Bigfan :) (whoever you are) ---I'm flattered, really. Yeah, I made up the R-U theory and you can use it. Just remember it doesn't have credible proof nor any historical significance.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Sue, and you won't get a cent. Nyah!

**The Malfoys**

"_Wealth is not without its advantages…"_

They were standing on the platform, surrounded by muggles. Nobody took heed of them as they were waiting. Even Draco's clothes didn't attract much attention. But, then again, that was the beauty of not-notice-me charms.

A long, black limousine rounded the corner. Remarkably, it was large enough to prove that the owner was immensely rich, yet small enough to be inconspicuous. _If that was even possible._

"Muggle transportation?" Damien wryly raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm sorry, we ran out of magic carpets," Draco's reply was oozing with sarcasm. "No, truth is, Father's doing a sweep on the Manor this week and it'll be quite difficult to portkey there."

"Carpets are outlawed anyways," Damien muttered as the chauffer, a house-elf in disguise maybe, took their trunks and (since it took such a _long_ time to get to the other side of the vehicle) packed it in. "But it's quite alright. I'm sort of used to cars, been riding them half my life."

"I've heard," Draco said, stifling a yawn. "It's odd, you…living amongst muggles? I do wonder how you've kept your sanity. It's horrid, their lifestyles…I can't imagine living without magic. It must have been so inconvenient."

An annoyed look passed over Damien's face for a split second before it was gone.

"It was rather exciting, if you ask me. At least I'd know how to survive without magic."

"I can't imagine," Draco smirked then went inside. He looked thoughtful. "You pass very well for a muggle-hater."

"I know. Do _you_ hate muggles?"

"I never even met one. I assume I do."

* * *

"You talk a lot more here, have you noticed?" Draco asked suddenly. Damien stopped in the middle of his explanation of how cars run, where he'd just been explaining the intricacies of gas pedals. 

"Does that bother you?" Pause. "I suppose it's because I'm a lot more used to this world." Damien shrugged, then stopped talking. He frowned, worried.

_Right, mustn't forget. Just because the place is different doesn't mean you are too._

He brooded the rest of the way, despite Draco's attempts at making conversation.

Meanwhile, the car ran smoothly through the streets of upper-class London, going south.

_Down that way is a rickety middle-class neighborhood, _Damien thought as they passed a street leading to Surrey. _Where the most hateful muggles live, in all their glorious normality and bigotry..._

_Here, _he looked at a big white house done in classic Romanesque, partially hidden by some trees. _One of my clients live, the one who insisted I use that 'ol' choking maneuver'. He and Niccolo used to have huge fights, until Marco threatened to do him in._

Familiar sights and memories greeted Damien as the car skillfully navigated through the city. In them, he saw his past…_and the person he used to be. _Life had been so much simpler then. It was amazing how things could change so quickly.

It was getting dark outside when they got to the countryside and everything was bathed in eerie orange light. It was almost nightfall.

"The wards should be around here somewhere," Draco sighed finally when they reached small, dirt road leading to a fairly dense wood. The blond had slumbered merrily most of the trip and his hair was all mussed up. It was an amazing feat of great ignorance, with the war looming.

"We passed them around a hundred meters back," Damien said coolly. "The house-elf told me just before I nearly got _fried_."

"Oh," Draco had the grace to look ashamed. "I forgot to tell you about those extra measures. How'd you get past them then?"

"Took your signet ring," Damien tossed him back the thick silver band with the Malfoy crest. "You're very easy to steal from. Be more careful."

It was a command, not a suggestion.

Draco didn't know whether to be angry or embarrassed. He settled for coldness.

"I _was_ careful." He retorted calmly. "I simply should've known better than to trust a someone like you."

* * *

_The Malfoy Estate._

The grounds were severely large, and the gardens darkly beautiful in the moonlight. Dancing statues and fairy lights all around.

Beyond the polished silver gate (adorned with an ornate 'M'), a white marble manor stood, unfazed by time and still as magnificent as it was a thousand years ago. The house itself, all three stories and labyrinth of dungeons, was heavily riddled with centuries-old and well-tested wards.

Whoever said that Hogwarts was the only fortress safe enough had never seen Malfoy Manor and all other pureblood ancestral homes. Years upon years of ancient protection had been cast upon them by brilliant and moronic wizards alike. Stone and wood cast with history.

Who knows what goes on inside those dwellings? _Darkness, Light, Betrayal, Loyalty, Hate, Love, Fear and most importantly, Blood._

"Let Dobby take your bags, Master Malfoy and Sir!" A house-elf, wearing a pillowcase squeaked as soon as they arrived at the main doors. He nearly fell over himself in his haste. _God forbid there be another like this one._

Damien noticed it had several lumps on its head and bandaged fingers as it took their bags.

"What happened to him?" he asked as soon as the house-elf vanished.

"He's a bit of a loony, loves to hurt himself," Draco shrugged. "He's my personal elf, but he meddles a lot with father's business. That's why we try to keep an eye on him."

"He's very odd."

"He was normal enough at first, then suddenly he decides to go nutters. He's got these ridiculous ideas about how 'Malfoy's are dark wizards!'"

"Wouldn't that be dangerous?"

"Not really," Draco waved the matter off carelessly. "He's obligated to keep his mouth shut. Father said Dobby's got too much Light in him and told me to 'just leave him be' which is fine since he's quite fond of squeaking under his breath all about Chris' Potter's brilliance. _As if I need to hear that_."

Damien still looked suspicious and glared in the direction where the elf had gone. He was not one to underestimate small creatures.

"It's really quite funny when he and Kreacher, an elf from Mother's family, get together." Draco grinned amusedly. "Kreacher sneaks over here sometimes. Now, Dobby's not quite as gutsy – _or loony_ – as him."

Dobby returned, levitating their bags, smiling like a maniac. They went inside.

'_It was no wonder Draco was so whiny at first.' _was the most fitting description of the grandeur of the abode. It looked like something out of the Dark Ages, polished stone and torches and grand portraits of noble-looking ancestors.

Draco led him down a most elaborate corridor into the West Wing silently, while his forefathers peered down their noses at the newcomer.

"They hadn't had much time to prepare your rooms. I apologize if it's a tad tacky." He drawled and opened a tall mahogany door.

"Am I supposed to be jealous?" Damien sneered as he surveyed the 'tacky' room, as spacious as the Slytherin dormitory. His trunk was already there. "Because, frankly, I'm not… I don't care for your money."

Draco's smirk fell and he became less arrogant. "Oh well. I guess that can be a good thing."

Draco pointed to the end of the corridor.

"My room is right down the hall, so _please_ curb the urge to snore. I'd hate to be waken up by such noises." He shot a pointed look to the other boy.

"That was _Crabbe_, bastard."

Draco's room was mostly in Slytherin colors, with a lush black carpet and artfully-sculpted fittings. It was dark and strangely enough, _homey_. It was the _typical_ boy's room: several posters of his Quidditch team, a fancy, new broomstick lying on the dresser, an owl perch in the corner, a shelf of books on unfriendly curses, a galaxy-globe, a fireplace, a swimming pool in the bathroom…

"Zabini's complaining he hasn't that." Draco said in a self-satisfied manner. "He's always been rather envious of me, have you noticed?"

"Draco, honestly, you think _everyone's_ jealous of you."

* * *

Dinner was at seven. The two boys seated themselves opposite and waited. 

"Father will be home soon." Draco smiled like a Cheshire cat. "For my very important contribution to the _Flamel mission_, he's agreed to buy the Slytherin team new Nimbus 2001 broomsticks. Providing I'm on the team, of course. That's sure to boost up my influence over Slytherin..."

"Maybe with a little practice, you won't have to _buy_ your way into the team." Damien smirked.

"I do hope you're not implying anything, Santelli." Draco said evenly.

"I'm only saying that you may want to join the team on your own terms,"

"I agree," a steely-curt voice drawled from the doorway. Lucius walked inside, tall and regal and still wearing formal dress robes, followed by Draco's ethereally beautiful mother. "You must start learning to get things for yourself, Draco. It would be unbecoming of a Malfoy to depend so much on _money_."

... _Normal family conversation... (well, as normal as it could get)  
_

"Disgusting," Lucius sneered as Draco finished narrating the events during end-of-term fest. "Dumbledore never did like Slytherins. I do wonder how Severus puts up with him."

"Severus has the patience of a saint," Narcissa laughed softly. "Bellatrix has always hated him for that."

Lucius glanced at his wife, a tad surprised. "You hadn't mentioned your sister for a long time, dear."

Narcissa fidgeted slightly, but retained her composure. "It was…a slip of tongue. We best not talk about it more."

Draco sensed the sudden icy tension at the table (years of practice perfected this skill) and changed the topic abruptly. He blurted out the first thing he could think of.

"Damien got a hundred and fifteen percent on his Charms exam!"

Lucius turned to the dark-haired boy, his sharp gray eyes examining Damien the way an eagle examines prey. One would think he was waiting for this moment all through the main course. "Impressive…I never did get to write you. I was somewhat _busy_ this past year. Draco's told me about all your little adventures…"

"And I trust they were to your liking?" Damien shot back, unruffled by the steady gaze.

"They were, for the most part. Tell me, how _exactly _are you related to Devon and Selena." Lucius worded carefully. _There, let him figure out who they are._

"Uncle Devon was my father's cousin. Everyone says I look most like him though. Selena was his wife, but she was also a relative of mine through a different line."

"Odd that they never mentioned you," Lucius took a sip of champagne.

"How could they? They died before I was born."

_No hesitation at all. _Lucius noted. _Maybe he is telling the truth._

"Where're your parents now?" Narcissa asked, catching on to her husband's scheme. "It would be a pleasure to meet them."

"_Dead_, couldn't take living in the muggle world," Damien wrinkled his nose in disdain. "I grew up there, by myself most of the time. I drifted many times, that's why I got so many Christmas presents." He added to Draco.

"My respects," Lucius said formally. He then resumed his questioning. "Why ever did your parents flee? They could've stayed and raised you here. I'm sure they had the means..."

"The Dark Lord had just fallen then, Mr. Malfoy, and our entire family was endangered. You do know the history of our clan, don't you? I have no idea of their intentions at that time so I don't know exactly what could've happened, could I? The best I could say was that they were in a panic." His response the most acidic it could get without being impolite. Now that was a talent worth mentioning.

Lucius nodded, thinking very quickly, analyzing and re-analyzing the words and coordinating them with the time-frame. _Seamless, the story was seamless_. But he still didn't trust the young boy. He was, after all, a Slytherin.

"You know, Sir," Damien said politely later on, but with an edge of something more malevolent. "If you really wanted the whole story, you could've just asked."

* * *

"You've just been through an inquisition," Draco said, stating the obvious as they retired to their neighboring rooms. "Mother, especially, is good at questioning people…without the torture." 

"I noticed, she's quite charming" Damien tightly replied. _Like the devil. _"I'd just been enjoying it when that house-elf of yours suddenly appeared."

_Dobby had suddenly popped in during dessert, splattering them all with a pudding he'd made himself. He then resorted to repeatedly hitting himself on the head with a large serving bowl until Lucius was forced to stun him. That was the disastrous end of their dinner._

"Can you call him here? I wish to have a little talk with him, thank him personally for saving me from further interrogation."

"Father's quite wary of people, especially now that the Ministry's placing their arses where it isn't wanted," Draco justified, obviously very defensive of his father. "And _please _don't be polite to the elf, he'll take it a sign for more masochistic exploits."

A moment later, Dobby was cowering in front of Damien.

They were alone in the hallway now since Draco had immediately gone into his room after summoning the elf, saying something about 'dreaming about my new broomstick'.

"Look, Dobby," Damien said in a low threatening whisper. The elf cringed at his words and began hopping nervously from one foot to the other. "_I know where you went tonight_."

"Dobby is sorry, Sir! Dobby is very sorry!" It let out shrill, piercing wails that simply got absorbed by pre-adjusted silencing charms (supposedly for snoring noises but oh-so-convenient).

"Shut up," Damien commanded quietly. Dobby stopped wailing but continued hitting itself, this time with a glassy figure of Pallas Athena. "I forbid you, Dobby, to leave the house from now on, telling bad things, _secret _things of your master. You know that's why you're going crazy, Dobby, you're breaking orders."

_The pains of being a House-elf._

"I especially _forbid_ you to have any contact with Potter." Damien finished. "This is not your war, elf. Don't get yourself involved in matters you do not understand."

Dobby stopped in shock. _How could young master know of Dobby's work?_

Not only that, but his house-elf instincts were responding to a non-family member. He was following a master beyond himself, beyond the Malfoys, _beyond Dumbledore. _It was an ominous thought.

"You are not to tell anyone of this talk."

* * *

"It's such a shame we're not allowed to use magic over the summer," Draco said one afternoon, two weeks later, as he set down one of the spellbooks that Lucius had _insisted _they read. 

God knows it was the start of Death Eater training. Damien often wondered why he allowed to get dragged into it.

"_Jut because you're not in school doesn't mean you can slack off, boys."_

"I heard Potter can, since he's the 'savior' and all that. He's likely practicing dueling already. I do hope you'll still best him this second year."

"I hope I can," Damien said noncommittally. "I'm at a disadvantage here. No underage magic allowed."

"I don't know why they haven't revoked that Underage-Wizardry law yet though, especially now," The Malfoy heir mentioned, thumbing through a brand new copy of third-year spells, looking pained at the complex hand movements.

"At least they still allow us to play Quidditch,"

"Right, I guess that kind of makes up for it."

Draco had his own private pitch, just fifty feet from the Manor, shielded by a thick spreading of anti-muggle incantations and lots of trees.

Damien had taken it upon himself to help Draco with his game, in 'gratitude' (or maybe just pity). He hadn't had anything better to do anyways.

At least his arms were kept in shape through hurling the heavy mock-bludgers at Draco. They were getting feeble lately, from lack of exercise. Niccolo would've been ashamed. _Damien didn't want that, no._

Eventually, Draco had finally improved enough to make a fairly decent player.

But they practiced still.

Slytherin didn't settle for decent. They wanted the best of the best. _You never know with Flint as captain._

"I think you can make the team this year," Damien smiled, narrowly avoiding the bludger Draco pelted at him. "I am such a good teacher."

Draco scoffed. Then his eyes widened at the sight his his friend's face. "You really ought to smile more often, Santelli. It suits you."

Damien's face shut down at once.

* * *

They hardly ever saw Lucius during the daytime.He was gone by the time they woke up and arrived days, even a week or two, later. He always mentioned something about an extended journey to find something, whatever 'something' was. 

Narcissa was usually away as well, going to the most distant places, making 'diplomatic' relations, as Draco called it.

Damien knew better than to ask.

It was mid-July when Damien saw Lucius and Narcissa again.

It was a chance thing.

At nearly midnight, he had been going to the Owlery, in search of Gabriel, when he passed by what could have been the Malfoy patriarch's study. A fire was burning in the room and the door was imperturbable.

He didn't want himself to get embroiled in whatever matter they were privately discussing (it wasn't his business), he stealthily hurried to get away when he heard his name mentioned. His ears were sensitive to things like those.

"…can't make _anything _out of him. Severus was right, the boy _is _formidable. Even Yaxley, _Yaxley who managed to break impenetrable charms when we were in fourth year_, is impressed by the boy. He has this - this _air_ about him that's simply not natural." Lucius was speaking. "We must tread carefully, Narcissa. I can't help thinking there is something terribly different about Santelli, even the Dark Lord senses it. He has been curious about the boy for a while now."

"Has Dumbledore noticed him yet?"

"Regretfully, yes, Severus says that Dumbledore has plenty of suspicions, and is pressuring him a lot to pry into the boy's life." Lucius chuckled gravely. "It's not everyday, after all, that a boy as brilliant as that comes to Hogwarts. Master himself–"

Lucius stopped in horror. He had nearly said something akin to blasphemy.

"I have been seeking his muggle relations, Lucius, but I could find _none._ There have been no records of the boy ever existing. I've gone through most of the city already and haven't one clue." Narcissa said quickly to cover up for her husband's blunder. She wondered what was it that made her husband so paranoid and careless.

"I will speak to Draco about him soon," There was a sound of a chair scraping the floor. "Santelli is awfully secretive of his past, it is almost disconcerting. But he must've slipped some time or the other – unless he's _that _experienced in the art of secrecy."

Footprints were coming towards him. Damien slipped into the shadows ever so carefully and walked away, phantom-like, and pleased.

_Things were going better than he'd expected.  
_

* * *

"Did he really believe that it was your _birthday party_ all pureblood adults are attending tonight?" Damien asked, shaking his head at the absurdity. 

"You heard that?" Draco laughed. "Well, the Ministry recently intercepted an owl calling for a gathering and staked out this place, you saw them, didn't you? Father got ahead of them by decorating the place all festive-like and showed it to the Minister and the aurors. Fudge's only complaint was that he wasn't invited! Can you believe what an asset that man is? Some of the Aurors were furious. Honestly, just because there hasn't been a wide-scale attack in nearly four years, wizards are starting to get a false sense of security."

"But that's good for you,"

"Well, yes," Draco said agitatedly. "But...but...whatever. I bet the Order is going frantic trying to convince people of 'constant vigilance!'."

"So, it _is_ your birthday tonight, isn't it?" Damien asked. "I wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to have that claim investigated."

"Conveniently it is," Draco snorted. "Don't mind it though, I stopped celebrating birthdays. It's so much better to receive presents all throughout the year instead of only twice."

"That's just pathetic," Damien muttered, looking disdainful.

"Have some respect for your elders, Santelli, if not your…_betters_." Draco said airily. "You're not twelve yet, aren't you?"

Draco could barely see the slow nod of his friend's head.

"Truly? I would never have guessed you to be younger than me," Draco was clearly amazed. "When is your birthday anyway?"

Damien mumbled something incoherent.

"What?"

"July 31st if you must know," Damien gritted out. Niccolo never bothered to change his birthdate, not that he'd minded at that time. It was pointless to pretend otherwise.

"That's odd," Draco said, and his forehead creased into a frown. "You have the same birthday as Potter..."

_Of course, _thought Damien. _We're twins._

_Or used to be._

* * *

And so, summer just flew by in a haze of hot flying sessions, cold chocolate shakes, swimming in the Malfoy Lake, reading spellbooks…and doing homework. It was a well-earned period of rest from a year of sneaking and being traitors to society. 

Things got interesting every now and then: Dobby painstakingly trying to escape (to no avail), fearsome wizards coming to call, werewolf-negotiating in the front garden over tea, ministry lackeys trying to set up 'bugs', Lucius blasting a priceless antique chair in frustration...but really nothing special to warrant too much attention.

And as the days passed, Damien began to wonder why he befriended Draco so much. He knew instinctively that it was part of the Plan, but _how exactly_ he knew not. He felt cold at the thought of _not knowing_, akin to the fear humans hold for the unpredictable future.

_What part did the blond play in his scheme of things?_

* * *

End. There's the update. Someone _nearly_ got the riddle, by the way. (Actually, one person got half then another got the other half so it doesn't count) 

Dumbledore was supposed to make an appearance but I placed that scene in the next chapter. And, however it might seem like it, this will not be slash. Malfoy's just really important for that plot (hint). If Damien seems OOC to you, he's not. He's as broody and knowing and angry as ever.

Did anyone notice how eerily the events here parallel the events in the second book? No? Okay, just a passing thought.


	21. Chapter 21

Guys, I love you. Really.

…

Did I freak you out yet? Good, 'cause you're now in the right mood.

Disclaimer: I don't own HP nor do I pretend to. If this fic sucks, the canon is still as glorious as ever.

New things, New teachers

"_When everything changes, we go on."

* * *

_

Lucius Malfoy, rich, powerful, and influential, was drinking his usual morning stew (no other word for it) when his son arrived for breakfast.

"Pleasant morning, father," he greeted a bit sleepily.

"And what, pray tell, is so pleasant about it, Draco?" Lucius asked, not even pausing to look up from the newly-arrived issue of the Daily Prophet.

Draco shrugged. He was rather used to hearing this sort of cool remarks from his father, used to answering them. "I suppose it's pleasant because you're here, and we might finally have that disgustingly sentimental father-son talk that we've been putting off for, say, _twelve years_ perhaps?"

"I suggest you curb that sarcastic tongue of yours in the presence of your betters, Draco Malfoy." Lucius said silkily, folding the paper and setting it to one side. "Such cheek increases your mortality rate substantially."

He wasn't kidding, and there was a very severe warning in his too-familiar-gray eyes as he bade his son to take a seat to his left.

"I'll remember that," Draco lowered his eyes; the usual air of confidence about him slips away.

"Your friend, where is he?" Lucius drawled in a deceptively casual way.

"I'm guessing he's still asleep," Draco looked up and winced at the vile brew his father was sipping.

"_Guess?_ You simply can't guess, Draco." Lucius reprimanded yet again. "This is a time where conviction is everything. Doubt can mean our downfall."

"I thought it was okay, such a trivial thing anyway…" Draco shrugged glumly.

"There is nothing trivial about it," Lucius snapped coolly. "_Colloportus._"

The doors around the halls slammed close and a thin coating of something shimmery silver covered them. Draco lost all sense of sleepiness, survival instincts on high alert.

"I do not wish to be overheard," Lucius stated, setting down the goblet and looking piercingly at his son. "I do hope you're right, Draco, that Santelli is still sleeping. It wouldn't do very well for him to walk in while we're speakin behind his back."

"Santelli?" Draco was startled. He certainly did not expect this. "But you and mother already _grilled_ him! He's –"

"_He's _the person your mother's been investigating for weeks now," Lucius cut off agitatedly. "And you what she's found so far? Only a four-day attendance record in some school in upper London! And it was extremely covered up, mind you. She had to resort bribing officials who turned out to be in league with more…notorious…characters."

Draco's eyes widened. He sputtered for a moment then frowned. "But you've heard him! You even said his story was infallible! Mother said the family resemblance is there as well! Why are you so suspicious of Santelli?"

"I am deeply ashamed to see _my son _acting like some ignorant bastard." Lucius said coldly. Draco reeled back in a mixture of shock and anger and hurt. "Surely you've noticed something _amiss _with that boy. Surely you do not _trust_ him that much?"

"I've noticed." Draco ground out, after a silence, his too-bright eyes looking anywhere but the man before him. "I've always noticed something different about him, something I can't describe. I'm not a fool, father. But he is my friend, and, yeah, I guess I _do _trust him." He smiled wickedly in defiance.

"You will do no such thing!" Lucius practically seethed. "Has your sense of self-preservation gone? You are a _Malfoy_. Mafoy's don't trust."

Draco frowned up at his father, a bit bothered by the statement. _What was humanity, after all, without trust? We ARE human, aren't we, father?_

Lucius sighed upon hearing the hidden question, calmed down, and put a hand to his temples, like he had a headache.

"You have to understand that that's the way it's always been," He said in an unnaturally cool voice. "We have not trusted beyond the family for hundreds of years. It comes with being…_us_…I do hope you'll remember that, I really do."

Draco suddenly had the feeling his father was trying to tell him something important, something he would learn soon enough, something he had to discover for himself.

"Why are you so curious about Santelli?" Draco asked after a short pause, a tinge of envy coated his words. "So he's brilliant, I admit that. So he's fairly powerful, nothing special. So he's a little more frightening than an ordinary twelve-year old! What makes him so special that even the Dark Lord is curious about him? Merlin, he's only my age! You think he's already that important?"

"Age has nothing to do with power. And there's something else (_something that chills my blood whenever I catch a glimpse of him looking of into space with those empty eyes of his)_…I can sense it, like a volcano waiting to explode…" Lucius' voice turned serious. "Severus is anxious that we coax him into our side of the war before you lot come of age."

"He _is _on our side," Draco said quietly, a bit aggravated. "I can feel it. He _hates_ them, he hates them so much. He will never join them, I'm sure."

"And what makes you so sure he doesn't hate us as well? What makes you think he'll _join _us?"

"Well, he has no choice, doesn't he?" Draco shot back. "He's alone. He'll have to choose sides or be hunted by both, and he knows it."

"I see," Lucius nodded thoughtfully, only the least bit reassured. "What else do you know about him? Spare me the useless details."

"He's apathetic to almost everything," Draco sneered in remembrance. "He's not that brave, _too_ cautious… broods a lot…seems a lot interested in History of Magic…has a soft spot for muggles, that fiend…"

"And about his past?"

"Very few," Draco sighed. "It's a nightmare trying to get him to reveal anything. I understand that he was home-schooled, traveled a lot when he was younger…and…that's it… I can't remember anything else."

"And you trust him." Lucius smirked sardonically. "What-"

He stopped and looked around warily. "He's coming."

Lucius bristled in annoyance as he dissipated the occluding charm.

Perhaps next time, he wouldn't have to spend half the time lecturing Draco on the ways of a Malfoy. He suddenly wondered if Severus had been right in saying that he was paying his heir too little attention. Indeed, he certainly didn't remember Draco as being so outspoken.

Pushing such poisonous thoughts aside, he sat straight up and continued elegantly sipping his brew as the Santelli boy walked him.

* * *

Damien bid a morning greeting to the two blonds, face impassive.

"Your Hogwarts letters are with me," Lucius said suddenly, producing a thick envelope of yellowing parchment. "Do you wish to go to Diagon Alley today or should we wait until the streets are bursting with mudbloods?"

"We've nothing better to do," Draco shrugged, opening his letter.

"The new teacher must really be a big fan of Lockhart's," He said further as he skimmed over their list of new textbooks, sneering snidely at the self-gratuitous descriptions. _Lockhart did this…Lockhart did that…_

"Oh _he is_," Lucius smiled knowingly. "Gilderoy thinks the world of himself. I'm ashamed to say that he was in Slytherin, though taking credit for someone else's labors _is_ cunning…just the pathetic sort of cunning."

He turned to Draco, a rare hint of a smile on his aristocratic face. "He used to fancy your mother, did you know?"

Perhaps, if Draco had not been drilled with table manners since he was four, he would have sprayed them all with whatever he was drinking.

"He actually had the _guts_?"

"Of course he didn't make it known then." Lucius recalled. "He wasn't high enough in the hierarchy (wasn't even _in _the hierarchy) to do anything. We would've destroyed him."

"So he didn't do any of these things really?" Damien asked, skimming _Year of the Yeti_, reading the passage where Lockhart managed to save a village girl from one of them bigfoots.

"Of course not, we all know that," Lucius smirked. "Not that I'm complaining. The Dark Lord is…amused…with him. Gilderoy makes eliminating the DADA experts who did the _real _work a tad less inconspicuous. He's an excellent diversion tactic. Clever really, as of now, no one wants to kill him."

* * *

"Must we go to Knockturn Alley first?" Draco complained as Lucius prepared a portkey leading to the place.

It was a dangerous place, dark and merciless, thriving with half-human monsters and nasty forbidden artifacts that bit and clawed. It was still unknown just how many wayward kids disappeared in its shadowy labyrinth of streets, never to be seen again.

But Draco need not be afraid. The Malfoy name and all it stood for was protection enough. And Lucius, after all, was under the Dark Lord's service and an assault on him would be an insult to Lord Voldemort, something no one would dare try.

Before anyone could say a word of response to young Draco's whine, the three of were whisked off to the place, right beside an old crone who was selling whole human fingernails (she appeared to be nibbling on some).

The alley was sparse, compared to Diagon Alley, and dark, even in the light of day. There was a mustiness in the air, and some sort of metallic scent was coming from one of the shops. The houses here were smaller and more gothic, stuffed into crevices here and there and above and below.

It was very quiet, and people went around with the hoods of their cloaks covering their faces. No one spoke. No one mentioned how cold it was.

At the corner were two fierce-looking Aurors watching out for any unusual activity, as alert as though they were going to be ambushed any minute.

"This way, boys," Lucius said in a little more than a whisper, his face covered in shadow and trademark hair concealed by a black hood. "Don't wander off, don't touch anything, don't look at people in the eye."

He led them towards the deeper part of the alley, going down a descending stair of cobblestones, around a sharp corner, and stopped.

'Borgin and Burkes' a vainly polished sign said, the faded letters hardly readable. Draco did not seem at all surprised, maybe having been here often.

They entered the small, shadowy shop where a stooping greasy-haired man was waiting at the counter. There were rows of very _interesting _things on display, all of which potentially dangerous, some borderline illegal and some downright illegal.

"Touch nothing, boys," Lucius said crisply, lowering his hood, going straight to greedy Mr. Borgin. "I'm assuming that we are secure?"

Mr. Borgin nodded, eyes darting around as though expecting any unwanted visitors to pop up.

"The Dark Lord wishes to avail of your services, Mr. Borgin. Quite an honor to you… I assume you know the consequences of rejecting his offer." Lucius stated smoothly, bringing forth his wand and twirling it in a relaxed manner. The threat was evident.

Mr. Borgin lost the greedy look on his face and he went pale.

"Business has been _terrible_, Mr. Malfoy. Ever since the raid a few weeks back, hardly anyone has been in my shop I – "

Lucius held up the wand, and cut in curtly. "Spare me the angst, Borgin, the Dark Lord only wishes you to hide the numerous incriminating artifacts in our homes. For the last month, seven of us were charged when dark objects were found during the raids. He – and I as well – does not wish it to happen again."

"Is that all?" Relief flooded the shorter man's face. "Of course, I will take them – free of charge in fact – I thought it might be something else…"

"Oh yes," Lucius smirked coldly, producing a thick roll of parchment, with the telltale Skull seal. "Thank you for reminding me. He is also asking for a hundred opals, two hundred sets of rare potions ingredients, sevens heads of doppelganger and the _Tenebres de Magique _you never mentioned that you just acquired the other day, _all free of charge as well._ Will there be a problem?"

Borgin's mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no words came, no words to convey how unfair he thought it was, no words to fire back to Voldemort.

"You know where to deliver it, _by tomorrow_. Good day to you, Mr. Borgin."

They (Draco and Damien had been listening with utmost amusement to the exchange) exited the shop, leaving poor Mr. Borgin sobbing over his counter.

* * *

"Has the ministry really apprehended that much dark artifacts, father?" Draco asked inaudibly as they strode to Diagon alley. The long street connecting the two alleys was fairly well-lighted and there were more people, less sinister characters, about.

"Yes," Lucius sighed, his tone containing an edge of anger. "_Never mind that those artifacts have been in the families for generations!_ Absolutely no respect for blood anymore…"

_Those heirlooms…there was a time where we'd proudly show them off, for it means a lineage dating back to Merlin-knows-when and a family as old as time…now, we are forced to hide them, forced to be ashamed of descending from a dark and purist family…_

"I say," Lucius said in mild surprise, looking at people at the top of the flight of stairs leading towards Gringott's bank. His gaze was directed towards a flock of glaringly red hair with a few others. "What imperfect timing, I get to see Arthur Weasley."

Lucius' lips curled in distaste. "If there was ever a blood traitor, it's him."

"And Granger," Draco scowled. "The nerve of her…bringing her mum to Diagon Alley…especially now…"

"The one who's been getting the better of you in class?" His father asked in a mocking tone.

"She's not getting the better of me," Draco whispered as his scowl deepened.

"What an amusing false sense of security people are getting nowadays. I must commend the Minister for hushing the attacks up. I hope _you're_ not fooled by this seemingly peaceful atmosphere as well."

"But surely they know something's going on." Damien spoke for the first time since Knockturn Alley. "Even though there hasn't been a major attack since…since…"

"You'll be surprised how easily people'll take to thinking the Dark Lord's given up." Lucius replied. "We know better. Dumbledore knows better."

His voice dropped in miraculously low levels. "The Dark Lord's biding his time. There are still a few matters to consider before going full-scale. Like that damned di–"

Mr. Malfoy promptly shut up and his face took on a harried look, for a second.

* * *

"Where's your vault key, Mr. Santelli?" Lucius asked penetratingly. Gringott's vaults were always a good way of proving a bloodline, though they can be circumvented at rare times.

"I don't know," Damien shrugged. "But the goblins know me and if they have a copy of the key, I will have it."

"Goblins are not very trusting of wizards," Lucius said silently, for there were two goblins just before them in the cart. "Too many wars…too many scars…"

"But they love our gold too much to give up living amongst us," Draco inserted cheekily. The two goblins turned to him with deadly glares on their fierce, ugly faces.

Lucius raised a cold eyebrow at his son, who clammed up. It wouldn't do very well to aggravate the creatures looking after their money.

"Vault 334!" Damien hopped out of the cart, following the smaller o the goblins. A small golden key was produced. The great metal slab with numerous locks and an embellished Croweson emblem, a highly-cursive 'C' with writhing snakes, opened without a hitch.

Damien smiled mockingly at the older Malfoy, his expression saying 'SEE?'.

Lucius looked back with a passive expression, not knowing what to make out of the circumstances. This event should've solidified Santelli's story beyond a doubt. _But…but what?_

"So full," Draco commented, his eyes widened as the expanse of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts, a chest of jewels or two. With no minister to bribe and only a schoolboy dependent on it, the Croweson account was literally just sitting there and filling up with interest. "Looks like it hadn't been used in decades…"

"Yes," Lucius agreed silently. _Looks like it hadn't been used at all…

* * *

_

"Yes, Draco, your vault _was_ fuller, so what," Damien rolled his eyes. Certainly, the Malfoy vault was not lacking. It contained enough gold to buy a small country.

_The thought of Draco owning it all someday, to be spent as he wished, was entirely scary._

"Where's your father?"

"Something came up," Draco said noncommittally. "Did you notice Uncle Sev back in Knockturn Alley? I think something came up. Father'll meet us in Flourish and Blotts in an hour when we, ugh, buy those blasted Lockhart textbooks."

In that hour, the two twelve-year-olds wandered around the sunny 'secure' street, scoping and buying the mandatory school things, the same things they did a year ago but with several things changed. Back then, they (Draco only) knew nothing of each other, they (Draco only) were a bit more innocent and they (Draco only) were a tad more carefree.

Now, they were with the knowledge that they helped kill a man, that they were _Slytherins_, that there were rules to be met and standards to be reached, that there was a war brewing.

_An hour of getting measured, getting overcharged, getting angry over which Potions ingredients to buy later…_

They discovered that it was very difficult to squeeze through a crowd of lovesick middle-aged (and younger and older) witches to get into a bookshop. Especially when said bookshop was featuring the widely-and-wrongly-admired author of the Lockhart series. Especially when carrying large bags of purchases without an adult to shrink them.

Thankfully, Lucius was already there. With his commanding status as a Malfoy (who happened to be a stockholder of F&B), they managed to get in _through the back_ without trouble and their stuff shrunken without delay.

The sight that greeted them was largely sickening: Lockhart was posing for the Daily Prophet, a saccharine smile on his face and pearly-whites aglow. He was holding on very tightly to Chris Potter, who was smiling reluctantly and trying to get away. His love for the spotlight seemed to have waned over the year and Chris was trying to appear as small as possible, though it wasn't working much.

"_Famous _Chris Potter," Draco sneered loudly after the photo-taking, a hint of envy in his eyes as he looked down upon the redheaded lot. He and Damien had been on the second floor, in the Potions section. "Savior of the Wizarding world and loved by all…front page of the Daily Prophet…don't you just love the attention?"

"Potter!" Draco yelped in mocking. "You've got glasses! Oh no, what are we to do when our beloved hero's eyesight is failing?!"

Indeed, Chris Potter was sporting thin, wire-framed, round, glass _glasses_. Inwardly, Damien's eyebrows raised in surprise. It didn't look so bad, the glasses actually made Chris look sharper, smarter.

"Bugger off," Chris snapped, his hand self-consciously going to his spectacles.

"Sad to discover you aren't perfect, eh?" Draco continued mercilessly. "Too bad you didn't go completely blind, that would've done us all a favor."

"Leave him alone!" A petite redheaded girl shouted, blushing furiously to the roots of her Weasley hair. Her hands clenched into fists and her eyes were burning with anger and embarrassment.

"Potter, you've got yourself a _girlfriend!_" drawled Malfoy. He turned on the eleven-year-old girl. "A Weasley blood-traitor too…I can just imagine a house full of filthy disgustingly-redhead kids, if either of you live long enough, that is…"

"You leave Ginny alone, Malfoy!" Ron shouted, rounding on the shorter boy. Draco grimaced but didn't back down.

"Ginny?" Damien smirked delightedly and stepped forward. He looked at her straight in the eye. She was as red as plums. "Was Draco bothering you, _Ginny_?"

The girl blushed even harder, if that was possible. She seemed to possess not the talent of articulation. What she had, instead, was the potential to be dangerously beautiful.

"Ginny! Get away from him!" Ron shouted, and had to be restrained by Chris and Hermione.

Damien looked up to smirk at Ron, then diverted his attention back to the sister. "Of course, can't have me tainting sweet little Ginny Weasley…"

Ron was about to burst from Chris' grip when…

"Ron, what are you doing?" Arthur Weasley rushed forward, battling his way through oblivious fan-witches, looking relieved to be out of the throng.

He saw the two other boys and his face twisted into a mildly revolted expression.

"A Malfoy, Ron? Didn't I tell you to stay away –"

He stopped at the sight of Draco's father. Lucius had been at the back, negotiating about some rare book the shop had on display. The moment he saw Arthur approaching the 'kiddies', he went as well. _Whoever said Slytherin parents weren't protective?_

"Draco," Lucius said coolly, ignoring the glares sent his way. "What did I tell you about associating with the likes of blood traitors?"

Draco remained silent, defiantly refusing to apologize in front of his archenemies.

"Arthur," Lucius acknowledged disparagingly.

"Lucius," The Weasley patriarch replied with as much contempt as he can muster. "So we meet again, _unfortunately._"

Lucius merely smirked and took a book out of Ginny's secondhand cauldron, flipping through its tattered pages. "The ministry's obviously not paying you overtime for all those raids. Honestly, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

"It's better than _serving_ a disgrace to the name of wiz-" Arthur responded with a cunning worthy of Slytherin. Lucius cut him off with an evil look, dark enough to kill.

"Language, Arthur," Lucius tut-tutted, the viciousness still not lost from his demeanor. "You don't want that statement to reach the wrong ears…"

His gray eyes strayed over to Mrs. Granger, who was looking at them apprehensively.

"What's going on here?" James Potter had just entered into the fray, followed by Lily (who was carrying a stack of Lockhart's books).

Damien felt the beginnings of a twisted smile on his face. _How laughable that everyone was here._

"Potter," Lucius said coldly in acknowledgment, carelessly dropping Ginny's book back into her cauldron. "I didn't expect _you_ to be here. I'd have thought you were busy with _Order _duties, unless taking your son shopping is one of them."

"I could say the same of you, Malfoy," James responded with an equally mocking sneer. "I'm surprised that _you_ would take time off doing Voldemort's dirty work to take _your _son and this other boy shopping."

His eyes flickered over to Damien. He regretfully recalled the scene from the year before when he and Lily acted like complete imbeciles and allowed themselves to be baited by an 11-year-old. _Gods, what their accusations must've sounded like!_

Damien met his gaze with an impassive raised eyebrow. No one could've possibly detected the bubbling hatred beneath his expression.

"My, my, an unfounded accusation, how terribly _characteristic _of you…" Lucius continued, jilting James back into the conversation, face giving nothing away.

"It's not unproven, Lucius." James hissed. The older Potter despised Malfoy, despised all he stood for and positively itched to get the blond man into Azkaban.

Lucius, however, was as slippery as an eel. He knew all the tricks of blackmail and bribery.

And so, they all had the same thoughts on their minds: _It's not proven either.

* * *

_

Later, back in Malfoy Manor, while Lucius was out on something (perhaps the same thing he had disappeared for earlier), Draco asked Damien why the hell did he act _that _way with Weaselette.

He got a knowing smirk in answer.

And he didn't like it, not at all.

* * *

That's it. I'm an not reading this over again. I am sleep-deprived, starving AND dying under stress. I am not editing this after spending hours of precious study time on this chapter. Okay. End ranting. If there's anything amiss or missing, I'll gladly answer the question, if its VALID. Meaning, no plot spoilers. Not sure about Gilderoy/Narcissa timeline so for all I know, I was wrong. Is Wiltshire in the south? Malfoy Manor's supposed to be there. Sorry, I'm not a brit. Sorry for being irritable, you'd be the same it you were me. Oh the pains of trying to succeed in life...Again, Sorry for these dumb Author's notes. I'm running on coffee energy at the moment. 


	22. Chapter 22

"Sorry for taking so long." I seem to be saying this a lot lately. Well, sorry for my busy life. I hope this chapter's okay. I'm thinking of making a C2 for Slytherin fiction and Black fiction (love it!).

Anyway, I got some stuff here from "On the Nature of Slytherin House" by HPfan000.

Whoa, I just realized, this fic is _slow. _And, BTW, half of you are probably going to hate me by the time this chapter is over._  
_

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even this computer.

* * *

The Slytherin Council

"_They say Slytherin is the best House. No one said it was the easiest."_

* * *

"What do I need this for?" Draco sneered in disgust as he gazed at the withered old hand his Father gave him. "Must I really bring this – this decayed appendage – to school?"

"You didn't look so offended by it when we were at Borgin's," Damien snapped coldly. "I recall you saying how 'damned cool' it was."

Draco was surprised by the amount of irritation in Santelli's voice. Damien getting peeved over something was rare. He made note of it, _as per his Father's orders_.

His father's sternly concerned face flashed in his mind's eye and his drawling voice resounded within Draco's ears:

_Watch your friend, Draco. Be careful. Never let your guard down. The Hand of Glory will come in useful this year, never forget. Never forget._

"Never forget what?!" He growled frustratedly under his breath. He hated it when his father spoke in tongues. _Granted, he should be used to it by now._

* * *

As the car again made its way through the sunlit streets, Draco took his mind off his father and started wondering about the new school year.

He became more pleased with each passing thought.

No longer was he 'an ickle freshie'. This year, _he'd _be lording over the first years.

_First years in Slytherin, regardless of whatever family he or she spawned from, were never allowed to extend their influence. Just like first-time employees weren't allowed use of the executive washroom. Or just like novices weren't allowed to use their instructor's blades._

With his father's contribution to their Quidditch team, not to mention his added Quidditch capabilities, Flint'll have no choice but to grant him a position. He could almost see himself trading bludgers with the Weasley twins. He'd show them and anyone else who dare say he _bought_ his way into the team.

Quidditch players weren't without influence.

And, with _Damien_ as his right-hand… Well, Damien was indispensable as an ally, Draco knew. He was quick, competent and unerringly subtle. Santelli was one of those people you couldn't help but wonder about and admire.

_Thus lies the problem_: Damien would have to recognize _him_, Draco, as the leader. Draco shuddered at the possibility that Damien would see _himself_ as the leader. _What a mess that would be._

But, ignoring that, Draco was determined for things to go his way, and he'll do everything to achieve it.

He'll study harder, enough to knock Granger off the honor list. He'll impress Flint like no one had ever done before, even if he had to stay all month in the Pitch. He'll pull all the right strings and make all necessary connections (he'd even befriend Dumbledore if need be). He'll maximize all available resources.

He'll get the best of everyone, _including Santelli. _Somehow, he'll find a way to make the other boy see light and succumb to his…leadership.

_Second year will be perfect. _

This year, he'll finally prove to his father that he's worthy of the name… _Malfoy_.

* * *

_The portkey deactivated. _The two Slytherins fell clumsily to hard gravel of a nearby alley, barely managing to land on both feet. They were about two streets away from the platform, but it was the safest location they could find, ever since the platform had been charmed to repel portkeys and apparitioners.

Five minutes later, after Damien had successfully fooled the guard (who'd tried to make them wear 'minor-without-adult-supervision" tags) to letting them go, they arrived just in time to see the Weasley's loitering about the invisible barrier.

"Oh great, what a perfect way to start the school year," Draco muttered with dripping sarcasm. He quickly took stock of his appearance, using the shiny metal surface of the wall as a mirror.

"Can't have a Malfoy looking shabbier than them," He said as he preened himself. The reflection in the mirror was blurred, and there was a hollowness to his face. A tinge of foreboding in those grey eyes.

_Odd._

Damien, meanwhile, was already at the barrier, looking more apathetic than usual.

Fred and George had seen him, apparently, and prodded Ron, who flushed angrily and shoved them off.

One of the twins then said something about 'bragging his arse off about besting Damien Santelli but wouldn't even prove it!'. Ron, competitive spirit nicely set aflame, strolled towards the dark-haired boy.

"Where's your blond lapdog, Santelli?" the gryffindor smirked boldly, thinking the Slytherin alone and unarmed.

"Obviously not counting your money, Weasley," Damien retorted icily, eyes suddenly narrowed, sneering at Ron in disdain. "Otherwise, he would have been here _ages_ ago."

Ron turned pink with indignation. He glared daggers at the Sytherin.

"Leave, Weasley." Damien ordered icily, after several seconds. "If you've nothing better to do than glare, then go. Get out of my sight!" He spat.

Draco, who'd seen and heard the exchange, stopped short. _What is wrong with Damien? Maybe Dobby poisoned him with a fury potion... Maybe he'd finally turned in a raging psycho… Maybe because he's going back to a world he hates more than imaginable…?_

The last thought just popped into his mind for no reason.

Ron, who had no acute sense of perception whatsoever, didn't move at all. Temper and self-preservation were waging battle in his consciousness and it showed horribly in his face. Draco decided to intervene before the gorgon-face turned anyone to stone.

"You heard him, Weasel," He snapped from the side, causing their two heads to turn to him. "Get a move on, the barrier just might lock you out. Even magic can get impatient, you know."

"I don't think so," Ron said as a matter of fact. "I'm waiting for Chris. He'll be coming with us 'cause his parents are on _Order_ duty, real important stuff. Did you happen to catch the special transportation the Ministry provided, along with the Auror Guard?"

He could not help but add. In front of him were the two boys who'd made his first year hell, who'd rubbed his family's poverty into his face, and who'd never given thought to his worth as person. _Just this_ _once_, he wanted them to respect him, even if it meant sinking to new lows.

"Yeah, the cars my father happened to pay for," Draco snorted, rolling his eyes.

Ron turned pink and scampered away in humiliation as the twins laughed from afar.

Draco shrugged.

"Pathetic." _The foreboding feeling he'd felt a while ago lightened somewhat. So he hasn't lost his touch in the art of speech and comebacks._

* * *

Once safely inside the compartment…

"I didn't need your help, you know." Damien said, rounding on him, eyes burning. "What made you think I couldn't take care of myself?"

Draco froze. His face turned hard.

"Fine then," he spat, then stormed out furiously, slamming the door on his way and hoping Damien's foot got in the way of it. _Serves him right._

_Draco had not gone a mere step further when…_

"Someone's angry," Blaise Zabini, leaning carelessly on the railing a few feet way, observed. He sauntered over in a would-be lazy manner characteristic of jungle cats.

"Who wouldn't be angry? I –" Draco hissed, running a small hand through his flaxen locks to calm himself (a disgusting habit his mother said).

Blaise cut him off with a careless wave.

"'Not you," The handsome boy's perfect patrician nose wrinkled condescendingly. "I couldn't care less if _you're _mad. Santelli's the one I'm worried about. I suppose he can be quite nasty if he's mad."

"Did you just insult me, Zabini?" Draco's eyes narrowed and he peered questioningly down his nose at the other Slytherin. "Did you just _belittle _me?"

His icy gaze was measured.

Blaise returned the look unfalteringly.

It is well-known in history, that one _look_ can change the fate of the world. _A single glance…_can start a war. _A momentary stare…_can cause rifts so terrible that it takes centuries to heal them. _A chanced gaze…_can send a man reeling down into the frightful dark depths of his soul. _One look can change a man's life._

It would seem, to an observer, that lightning suddenly fell from the sky, directly between the two boys, and the sound of shattering glass can be heard.

Unconsciously, gazing shifted to 'glaring with utmost loathing'.

Waves of hatred. Knives of steel emanating from cold mirroring eyes.

An unknown challenge had been made, a rival established.

Seconds ticked past, and neither seemed desirous of backing down.

Finally, Zabini moved away, looking none-too-defeated (though both of them knew _who_'d won the first battle). There was a gleam of pleasure and triumph in his dark eyes.

He, after all, got what he came for in the first place.

"I'll be seeing you around, _Draco_," He nodded, eyes still dancing in such arrogance that Draco wanted to abandon all pureblood etiquette and bunch the boy there and then.

Blaise leaned closer to the blond and whispered with a general air of sinister, "Because you won't always be protected, you know."

Then he walked away.

* * *

Draco, in a fouler mood than usual, roamed the entire train twice before going back the compartment he shared with Damien. He didn't care if they had to bite their heads off at each other again, _he was hungry. _And food could not be procured without certain resources.

_Hopefully_, Damien would be his usual self by now.

He was; all aloof and expressionless and so utterly deprived of humanizing factors. He was sitting (in a very muggle way; no decorum at all!), facing the greens and grays of a landscape in motion.

_Several minutes later in which Draco finally had his fill of gastronomic delights…_

"I'm not apologizing," There was something short of sullen in his voice.

"I'd have been shocked if you did," Draco clipped, not looking up from a Potions book (yes, he was actually making true to his promise).

"It's just…_hard_…" Damien said a while later, apparently after thinking it over for the umpteenth time now. He was talking more to himself, in a ghastly whisper. "And it's only been…a year…"

Draco didn't stir. He'd heard, yes, and assumed that Damien was talking about grades or so, and forgotten. _How funny it is that humans refrain from thinking 'what if' if they are so afraid of the answer. 'What if' Damien was talking about something else?_

Draco convinced himself somehow that whatever was said that moment was unimportant, or he heard wrong.

…_and another piece of History is torn out of place and covered with oblivion._

Then the raw anguish disappeared from the dark-haired boy's voice.

"Zabini was just here, by the way, left right before you came in."

* * *

"Do come closer, Mr. Santelli," Dumbledore sighed, adjusting his half-moon spectacles as he conjured some official-looking papers. "I'm afraid I'm not at all fond of talking to students when they're so far away. Who knows how many oddities and geniuses I might miss?"

Damien was in _the _office. The one where secret meetings had been held, where plans were made and dissected and carried out, where orders to kill had been given and inquisition had been done, where headmasters and mistresses of past sat and pondered and wasted away and died. _Dumbledore's office._

It was very large, and filled with all sorts of ancient paraphernalia. The mood was rather somber, rather subdued…enough to make a lesser man relax his guard and break down.

There were all sorts of maps adorning the far wall, with little X's and numbers on them, potions bottles half-empty, a long table. The Order is very good at cleaning up after themselves, for no important stuff were astray.

_But still…_God knows why Dumbledore would risk letting a Slytherin (and _him_ of all people) into his very private abode.

Damien moved closer and Dumbledore bade him to take a seat.

There was a small twinkle in the Headmaster's light blue eyes as he talked, slowly and deliberately gentle.

"Well, we mustn't dilly-dally. I'm sure both of us are quite eager to return to our sumptuous feast. I suppose Severus warned you, give you time to make up nice little reasons, he'd always been protective of your House…though I can't imagine why he thinks _I'm_ the biggest threat to you. Really, I would never harm a student. It would be a terrible mark on my résumé, if I should ever choose to go to another job." Dumbledore glanced at him, and saw only confusion (and maybe annoyance).

"Would you care to fill in these nice blank spaces on your student file?" He pushed the paper across the table.

Damien paused long enough before writing to smirk and raise an eyebrow at Dumbledore. It was not without its significance. Niccolo had told him about this 'mindgames'.

"_It's a battle of wits, Damien." He explained when rumors surfaced that they were 'at war' with another faction. "It's not the melee fighting or the killing or the spying. It's about staying one step ahead of your enemy in everything. All wars are like chessgames with higher stakes. Once you win the 'wits' part, you're set."_

And unfortunately for chess champion Albus, he was playing with a bigger expert.

Damien began to write.

…

"Dear me," Dumbledore sighed out as he read the entries over. Santelli had certainly haven't any hesitation in writing them and, with a single glance, Dumbledore could tell that all info there would fit in quite properly. He looked at Damien with a trace of sympathy. "I didn't you were muggleborn, my lad."

"I don't advertise it, Headmaster," Damien said coolly, looking away. "You can imagine how they'd react."

"Certainly, certainly…" Dumbledore wasn't an easy man to fool. But he made himself very susceptible for it. Imagine this: _a young boy is writing his life story in paper. The old man watching over him tries to Legimens him…and is met with normal memories. The old man, then a bit disappointed, tries to read his aura (a difficult task but someone has to do it) and notices it normal, if a bit stronger than usual. He then tries to poke a question about the latest pop sensation in the muggle world…and boy answers it legibly._

"Why on earth would the Sorting Hat place you in Slytherin then? They're – ah – not exactly nice to people like you."

"They're not nice to anyone," Damien smirked. "Why should I be an exception?"

"Does Mr. Malfoy know?" Dumbledore asked thoughtfully. The implications of Damien's alliance with the Malfoy Heir were not lost on him. Perhaps it would not be too late to change things…?

"Would we be friends if he knew?" Damien laughed sardonically. "He thinks mudbloods are the scum of the earth."

There is was: _mudbloods_. Thrown out so carelessly, spoken so naturally.

"Do not say that offensive word in my presence," Dumbledore said sternly. "Then _why stay with him?_ I can assure you, Mr. Santelli, it is perfectly alright for students to change Houses if in circumstances such as this. Your Housemates would not hesitate, um, incapacitating you especially when this war progresses. I think, it would be better for your safety if you transferred –"

"No," Damien cut him off abruptly. "_No, sir…_the Sorting Hat said I would be _great_ in Slytherin. And, given that ratty old thing's wisdom, it might…actually come true. _I want to be great._"

Dumbledore choked inwardly in horror. He'd heard very similar words once, more than fifty years ago. But there was no need to panic, no need at all, the boy in question _then_ had been _too_ ambitious, _too _powerful. Santelli wasn't any of those things, he believed.

Though there was no doubt now why Damien was in Slytherin.

"Men have a knack for wanting precisely the things that are worst for them." Dumbledore sighed, and took off his glasses in an attempt to look wearier. "Greatness is not what it seems, my boy. I have been there, I should know."

"But you're not Slytherin. You wouldn't know." Damien fired back.

"Be that as it may," Dumbledore huffed. "I am offering you a_ choice_."

Damien looked affronted.

"I told you already, I don't want to change Houses. I'm just _peachy_ with my classmates, plus, I don't think any one of them would be too willing to welcome me with open arms."

"Pessimism does not suit young minds such as yours," Dumbledore admonished. "I can see you're convinced to stay…but might I suggest some new friends?"

Damien raised an eyebrow.

"Chris Potter is really a very nice boy, Mr. Santelli, and it'd be worthwhile to get to know him." He noticed the sour look on Damien's face. "Now don't let the childish 'House rivalry' affect you, the boy is remarkable, and not just for being the Boy-who-lived. I daresay I was responsible for that title, to my great shame."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, anyway, I'm sure you're aware of his prophecy. There is limit to man's ignorance, after all."

_He who shall vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies_

_Born to those who thrice defied him_

_The dark Lord shall mark him as his equal_

_And he shall have powers the Dark Lord knows not_

_The light must guide him from darkness_

_And protect his innocence, his wrath_

_The one who will vanquish the dark lord will live as the seventh month dies_

"Can you imagine having that hanging over your head _at your age_? Chris, despite how you view him now (which is not at all favorable according to most), is amazingly resilient and headstrong. He'd make a better friend than any of your classmates (I know how those purebloods work). You would get along perfectly."

Damien tried to speak something but it came out a jagged '_bleaugh'_.

Dumbledore looked amused at finally hitting the nail on the head. He had managed to render Damien Santelli speechless.

"You know now the exact words of the prophecy, Mr. Santelli. It is with good faith that I expect you to not go blabbing them off to your classmate."

"No, Professor," Damien said frostily.

_It was an ancient spell, designed to bind a person by entrusting him with fairly strong information._

How _dare _Dumbledore try get him committed to the Light side. _How dare he._

"Keep your words."

* * *

"You missed the Sorting," Draco said when Damien arrived for the feast. He wondered what Dumbledore must've said, and what Damien must've answered. _Surely a different story from the one his father accepted._

"Yeah, I know," Damien said nonchalantly and took a seat.

Several seats away, Blaise waved to the dark-haired boy with a Cheshire smile. Damien inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.

Draco noticed, and his blood boiled. _So Zabini wanted his allies, EH?!_

"Weaselette went to Gryffindor." He spoke up, just loud enough for Damien to hear, bringing the attention back to the most important part of the occasion, namely him.

"_Weasley?_ Of course I expect her to go to Gryffindor." Damien looked genuinely surprised that Draco even brought that up. "With her history, no other option really."

"I'd have thought you saw something, well, _Slytherin_ in her. You seemed quite interested in the bookshop." Draco did not add the fact that the Sorting Hat took ages to decide.

"Don't be foolish." Damien frowned, signifying that the topic was not to be discussed further. "Sure, she has Slytherin in her, e_veryone does. _But I'm interested in a different way, if you know what I mean."

* * *

_Slytherin Common Room, after the feast._

It was just after Snape gave the first years the yearly Welcome speech. Except that it wasn't so much a welcome as it was a warning.

The Potions Master warned them of the life that characterized Slytherins, of which most of them were already painfully aware of.

He told them of honor, of loyalty, of power and ideals. He told them too of the hatred, of betrayal, of survival, of weakness. He spoke with a blunt sincerity that would've sent Gryffindor mothers hunting after him for scarring their children's minds.

But, it had always been a charismatic speech and many an older student paused to listen, to be reminded of how they should live. _For themselves._

Snape did not once mention the war, knowing all too well that his students heard enough about it at home.

It was during this speech that Blaise sided up to Damien without Draco's knowing, and both of them disappeared.

* * *

It was built deep within the dungeons, far from prying Gryffindor eyes, built by Salazar Slytherin's successor in response to the 'Room of Requirement'. Whoever the builder was, Slytherins took pride in the fact that it only took _one_ of them to equal _three_ of the others. 

An additional charm ensured that only Slytherins would be able to enter it, and transform it to a world of their making. It was especially very useful during the height of Dark Wars of the last millennium, when students were suddenly abducted (and then turn up dead miles away from the castle) and Slytherins were prime targets, when even the common room and dormitories were not safe.

This room had been their haven, their sanctuary. It was large and dark and cold, and it suited them perfectly.

However, when the feudal wars started, Slytherins turned on fellow snakes.

And nowhere was safe.

The room had thus been claimed by a group of Slytherins, the most powerful of their respective years. They established a hierarchy within Slytherin House, _the hierarchy Lucius mentioned_, and was able to restore order.

_Order meant putting everyone in their place and exterminating those who wouldn't stay put._

To rise up against them was to have the whole House turned against you until you are forced to transfer schools or die, if you prefer.

The wars stopped after several years of threatening, haunting and avenging, stopped when no one dared put another toe out of line. A thin veil of peace settled over the Hogwarts dungeons.

However, these Slytherins knew that once they were gone, disaster would ensue. The hatred and the defiant pride and the rivalry was still there.

And so, they adapted. Every year, they updated their ranks.

The room officially became their headquarters, and another charm restricted access to members and personally-invited guests.

Centuries later, _now_, the tradition was still upheld.

And all of Slytherin knew it,_ if subconsciously._

They knew why they should never rebel against their betters or try to start fights with their Housemates. They were being watched, protected, _ruled_.

_By the Slytherin Council._

* * *

"Everyone is here," the dude at the door, a fifth year named Jared Stanton, stated. He closed the door behind the huddle of second-years and performed an intricate charm upon it. The door disappeared.

"Good," a seventh year girl, of tall stature and frail countenance, dark red hair and icy blue eyes. Her voice was soft but everyone heard it. Power allows you to do that. And this girl had power. Her name was Imelda Rosier. There were rumors going around that she was a Death Eater already and she neither denied nor admitted it. She did not deny, however, that she was spawned by one and she was barely five when her father had been killed. It was her burning thirst for vendetta that allowed her to rise to the very top.

She was this year's Slytherin Council head.

"Zabini told you all what you're here for," She announced to the second years. "But I'm going to elaborate. Choosing a leader is a very complex and difficult process. Why? Because this is _Slytherin_." She pointed to a grand tapestry on the wall with the Slytherin crest behind her to emphasize. "If we were just like the rest of them, we can simply choose whoever's available. Here, it has to be someone utterly respected and authoritative. Slytherin is only as strong as its leader, and this council is the only thing that's binding this House together. We are an undeniably proud House and we do not allow ourselves to be ruled by anyone weaker."

Several nodded in agreement.

"You, girl," She pointed to Daphne Greengrass. "If the only thing stopping you from becoming great was _him_ (she pointed to Goyle), would you follow him?"

"Hell no," She laughed, a cold tinkling laugh. Goyle glowered at her, but didn't do anything else.

"You would _rebel_." Imelda said with finality. "We can't have that. That is why there are certain…tests…before one can join the Slytherin council. I believe we should let Aidan explain. It's his first night, after all, as one of us."

The third year boy, dark-skinned and very young-looking, nodded.

"Every year, the Council chooses one or two first years and mark them for observation. This task is usually carried out by another first year who's privy to the Council's workings, the _Informer_, and that would be…Blaise Zabini. Informers are usually those with a constant stream of influence, but not much ambition." Blaise tried valiantly to not let a scowl show.

"Leaders are chosen for different reasons but the basic qualities would be: ambition, cunning and cleverness. Each quality would be _unduly_ tested. But we are not so heartless as to start testing at once thankfully. All leaders get one year of ignorant innocence at most, but from then we go down a spiral to maddening darkness."

_Yeah, and some of us weren't ever innocent to begin with._

His laugh wasn't comforting at all.

"Anyway, Blaise then challenges the would-be leaders, and that challenge comes from us. You should know what that means." He said with a hint of distaste, remembering his own experience. "You would notice the absence of Draco Malfoy. He would only be aware of the Council's existence after the first four tests."

"Draco?!"

"Yes, Parkinson, Draco Malfoy _accepted_, as expected. There wasn't ever a Malfoy who wasn't a leader and neither a Black who wasn't part of the council. That's why one of the fiercest competitions ever had been between Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange (bloody wanted to kill each other). Because, if there were chosen, one of the tests would be to _take the other out._"

An ominous pause.

"It would've been very entertaining because Damien Santelli was also chosen for this year," He was now sneering openly at the younger Slytherin, disparaging him for rebuffing the once-in-a-lifetime offer. "But he rejected the challenge. I wonder _why_."

The latter sentence was an order to explain.

"I don't want to be a _leader_," Damien sneered back. "I'm _not_ interested. I _refuse _to be involved in your politics."

"Enough," Imelda intervened. "We are wasting time. I will finish explaining."

"We have our Obliviators. It is only in second and seventh year (_then you'll be called 'Advisers', isn't that nice_) that you be aware of the council's existence. And only _leaders _are to remember after they graduate."

"The Slytherin council is _sacred_ and, rest assured, _we will know_ if you've decided to betray us…even if it is as simple to inform Draco of our workings to as dire as betraying the entire House to whoever you are loyal to."

She eyed all of them stonily.

"Do no forget that we have ties _everywhere_."

* * *

End Chapter22.

I was kind of wary about making this. Too many OC's for comfort. But they're kind of important. Oh well. If you have questions about it, just review or message me or something. I've already planned out everything: the members, the history, the rules, the tests, everything! Not bad for someone who'd had five exams in a row.

Again, I loate HG just like the rest of you. Please don't take said words for face value.


	23. Chapter 23

"Yay! an update! _Finally!_" I can almost hear SylvanDreamer squealing. Sorry for the wait.

To TrypticWirter: Thanks for the criticism. But don't ever call say stupid, okay? Say horrible, disgusting, jump-off-a-cliff, etc. but _not _stupid. I've been called that before and it bugs me. big time.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. The computer is not mine. The paper and pen I used to make the draft is not mine. The internet connection is paid for by someone else. If you're suing, give it up.

**Exile!**  


_"Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion." -Joseph Conrad_

Unspoken Rules. So many of them floating around, electrifying the air, choking people.

No one mentioned anything from the night before. Even Pansy, who looked positively constipated at keeping such a huge secret, didn't mention a word. She was too afraid, and Blaise's warning looks in her direction didn't help any.

It was the Morning After, around 5am, and silence reigned in the common room. The air was subdued, as it had always been for second-years after induction into the Council. None of them were too eager to go to sleep.

Daphne, Blaise and Theodore (_Theo_, for all purposes) were deep in discussion about something academic. Crabbe, Goyle, and Millicent (all of whom seemed to have actually _thinned out_ during the summer) were sitting on the carpet, quite immobile.

Pansy, who had been fiddling with Millicent's cat, was opening her mouth as if to speak to Damien, but apparently thought better of it. She looked sad, an emotion so alien on a Slytherin face _if in public_. One could almost her what she had to say, _he was my friend you know, long time ago...I hope he'll be okay._

Damien was leaning on the far stone wall. He looked up once when Pansy approached but there was no trace of anything on his face. It could not be determined what he was thinking. _Maybe something happy? Maybe something sad? Maybe something...important?_

No one mentioned Draco Malfoy. And no one looked up when he came in, looked at the lot of them (immersed randomly among their other housemates), and went to breakfast.

A dull _'thud' _from the outside could have signified someone kicking the wall.

* * *

The Slytherin table is perhaps the most silent in the Great Hall. Its students were not as inclined to discuss a thousand theories every morning like Ravenclaws, not as sociable or friendly as Hufflepuff, and certainly not as raucous and loud as Gryffindor children. 

At the far end, Imelda sat, slowly sipping something as she read this morning's copy of the Daily Prophet. She wasn't sitting in any notable seat, not at the end of the table nor in any throne. She didn't look any different from the other 7th years. No one could have imagined her to be the leader of Slytherin House. She, and the rest of them, didn't look so dangerous in the sparse daylight, didn't look so menacing.

It was cold and colorless and foul outside and the second year section of the Slytherin table was no better.

Draco was silent. Then he fixed piercing silver eyes on the nearest person (poor Goyle). "Where were you last night?" Cold voice, always not a good sign.

Everyone suddenly ate hastily, anxious to leave the table and pry themselves out of this sticky mess.

Miraculously, after a bit of stalling, Goyle managed to spew out a somehow-believable answer about a stomachache that Blaise didn't even have to intervene.

* * *

Their first class was Double Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws. _Joy._

It was spent trying to transfigure beetles in buttons, which some of them managed to do - despite the loud never-ending argument Pansy and a Ravenclaw girl was having over whether it was _actually useful _to use beetles as buttons since, as Pansy claimed, beetle-buttons had long been impractical and not to mention, out of style.

Draco kept glancing at Damien's beetle, willing it to remain a beetle. Call him backstabber or whatever, he really wanted to be better than Damien in class. But of course it didn't work.

Hours and dozens of squished insects later, they went to lunch, making way for the first year Slytherin-Gryffindor transfiguration class.

Only the ones with very very keen eyes would have noticed the ever-so-slight nod Blaise Zabini gave to his successor, the newest Informer and youngest member of the Council, Violetta Ashford.

_ So it had begun. _

* * *

_Council Room. Mid-morning. _

_"You sure you understand?" Blaise asked the dark-haired girl. "You're sure you won't mess up anything?"_

_"I'm sure," The girl said, her tone betraying the slightest bit of impatience._

_"I'm sure she gets it now, Zabini," The older boy, Jared, smirked. "It's not really hard."_

_"Not usually," Blaise sniffed, glancing at his watch. He was a tad overdue for Herbology. "But - well - Draco's not really patient with people. Ashford might probably come back bawling her eyes out."_

_("Hey!")_

_Jared sighed aggravatedly. Why did HE, of all people, just have to have the only free time this morning. God knows he wasn't the type to deal with Informers, being one himself._

_"Cry once, Ashford, and you're OVER," He warned coldly. "But I don't think you would though. Just do everything you can to take Malfoy down, make him think He's the first year. Utterly destroy his reputation if you can!"_

_"And if he decides to destroy me first?" Ashford raised an eyebrow suspiciously, eyes narrowing. "I'm risking my own influence here, I should at least have some idea what this is about."_

_"Oh, he can't destroy you. You're protected under us. Why do you think Informers still exist?" Blaise laughed, but without much humor._

_"You're going to be the first in a series of 'tests' for our dear future leader." Jared explained, reciting the speech he had heard so many times before. "After all, to see how a man is really like, you take a look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals. The Council'll be evaluating how he reacts. I must say, leaders have been known to ace this first test. It's only the beginning, and therefore, the easiest."_

_"We'll tell you when to stop." Blaise had a very curious smile on his face. It'll be interesting to see how Draco fares._

_Very interesting indeed.  
_

* * *

It was on the way to Herbology that green and red first encountered each other. _And it wasn't pretty._

A small, mousy-haired boy was clutching a camera was looking hopefully at Chris, who looked somewhat embarassed.

"Uhm, Colin..." Chris squirmed, looking beseechingly at his friends. "I'm not very comfortable with...with photos right now."

He glanced at the approaching Slytherins. "Especially not now."

"Just one picture?" Colin looked ready to burst into tears, the poor ignorant boy that he was (crying in front of Slytherins would mean seven years of social torture). "Just to prove I met you, _savior _of wizards everywhere!"

"Not now, _please._"

But if Colin heard the begging note in Chris' voice, he gave no indication and went on raving.

"...and maybe your friend could take a picture of us together and then you could sign it?" Colin finished hopefully, just as the Slytherins came within earshot.

"_Signed photos, _Potter?" Damien asked in a scathing tone, raising an eyebrow like it was some funny joke. Now, since it was such a rarity that Santelli be the first to mock someone, the rest of his classmates laughed as they passed by. Even Draco, who had been sullenly lagging behind, managed a tight little smirk.

Chris slapped his forehead in aggravation, nearly knocking his glasses off. "Thanks, Colin."

"No problem, Chris! No problem at all!" The first-year replied enthusiastically, oblivious to the sarcasm. "Now everyone knows you give out signed photos! Were those your classmates, Chris? I always knew you were so popular! I bet they were all dying to get one!"

Ron smothered his snickers until Colin left - then he burst out laughing.

"Ron, stop it!" Hermione said in an unusually high voice. "It's not funny. I feel sorry for him..."

"Yeah, me too." Chris agreed. "He'll have to learn that not everyone can be friends the hard way."

* * *

The class was about to enter Greenhouse Three when Lockhart turned up, looking none too happy. 

"I've been wanting a word with Chris Potter," He said crisply, not flashing the smile he was so famous for. "You don't mind if he's a bit late, do you, Professor?"

"Go right on, dear," Professor Sprout smiled, then led the rest of the students inside. "Watch out for those purple pods on the floor, you wouldn't want to get sprayed by acidic pus..."

Greenhouse Three looked like a small jungle, with all sorts of beautifully dangerous plants.

"We'll be repotting mandrakes today, chaps!" She said brightly, _as though they weren't in for a hellish session_. "Who can tell me the properties of Mandrakes?"

Hermione's hand shot in the air. In the own corner, Nott mocked her actions.

"_Oh, oh! Pick me, Professor! I know, I know!" _He imitated while jumping up and down.

"Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative," Hermione chirped, raking in ten points for Gryffindor. "It is used to turn people who'd been transfigured or cursed back to their original state."

"Mandrakes can be dangerous too." She went on. "It's cry is fatal to anyone who hears it."

Nott scowled, and whispered to his companions fiercely, "What does _she _know? All she has to say comes from books."

"Let her be, we know better. But we don't need to impress anyone." Millicent shushed him, but the look on her face was far from impressed.

But the professor, pleased by such a good answer, smiled. "True, but the Mandrakes we have hear are still very young. Their cries won't kill _yet._"

Someone in the crowd gulped audibly.

"All they can do is knock you out for several hours, so make sure earmuffs are securely in place while you work. Pair up, everyone!"

"You and me, Santelli," Blaise said immediately, smirking hard at Draco from the other side of a tray. The rest of the Slytherins already had someone to work with and were refusing to look at him.

Draco, still alone, looked as though he had been punched in the gut. But it was quickly replaced with anger, then cold indifference.

And so, Draco worked alone that lesson. T'was better than working with a Gryffindor, he said.

Blaise, who'd originally planned to pull off Draco's earmuffs while he was struggling with the purple plant-baby, refrained.

* * *

It was Defense against the Dark Arts, again with the Gryffindors. 

Chris Potter didn't look too happy to be in the same room with Lockhart. He was scowling when almost walked in midway through the lesson (and who knows what could have happened with dozens of baby mandrakes screaming like that), but Hermione managed to stop him just in time.

Lockhart was pacing round the room, flashing his books and the pearly white smile, very much unconcerned. Finally, he went up front and cleared his throat.

"Well, it seems that everyone is here. I am Gilderoy Lockhart, _as if you didn't already know me_." He added roguishly. "Witch Weekly's favorite poster boy and Defense Against the Dark Arts expert. Now, what I will teach you this year will perhaps be the most important lessons you'll receive _in life_. Especially _now_, with You-know-who's possible uprising. I will show you how wizards of past have dealt with the worst of this world: _vampires_, _trolls_, _werewolves_... By next year, you'll be learning how to deal with them on your own, starting with basic jinxes, shields...and, yes, _dueling."_

He chuckled darkly, making a few girls' hearts palpitate.

"Not to worry, not to worry, the lot of you are safe as long as I am here to teach you everything I know," He pointed to a stack of his books behind him. "But for now, I'll be giving you a little quiz on how well you've studied my works..."

_20 minutes later, after many a giggle or scathing sound._

"Hey, Potter," Whispered words with an edge of something bad.

"_What?_" Chris hissed, frustrated, as he turned around. only to face Damien Santelli.

"You don't like Lockhart," Damien stated, low enough that no one else be able to hear. Chris rolled his eyes and went back to his paper.

"Funny, I thought you'd positively _adore _him. You're so like him it's almost painful." Damien continued, staring intensely at the redhead, smiling almost lazily.

Chris glanced at the teacher, then scoffed. "No way."

"I didn't think I'd meet anyone who glorifies himself as much as you do," Damien continued, the humor gone from his voice.

"I'm not like that," Chris finally whispered back, shaking his head. "_Not anymore._"

"Why? You finally realize the truth?"

"What truth?" Chris hissed, a bit furiously. "I swear, if you're just baiting -"

"The truth," Damien said simply, settling down on his seat such that he and Chris could watch each other completely. "that, like Lockhart, you did _nothing _to deserve that glory."

Chris opened his mouth to reply but was cut off, with perfect timing, by Lockhart. Damien was now acting as though nothing had happened.

_Later, I'll talk to him later._

"I'm quite disappointed with your scores," Lockhart was saying glumly. "It seems that only one or two of you paid attention." He slammed their papers on his desk beside something covered with cloth. "Maybe you'll pay better attention if we had a little hands-on."

The class, once lively and noisy, froze at the last word.

"Your first lesson: _expect the unexpected_. As my job to arm you against foul beasties, I must first teach you to arm yourselves. You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this very room and you have nothing on you, like today. You will not come to serious harm, mostly because I am here, so please remain calm. _This, while not too dangerous, will not be pretty._"

A few students looked as though they'd like nothing more to do than to bolt.

"Behold," Lockhart said dramatically as he whipped off the cover. "_Freshly caught cornish pixies."_

Someone laughed uproariously...and the _pixies went wild_.

Shrill jabbering voices and the sound of batting wings filled the room.

The pixies rocketed around, trying to poke students in the eyes, upturning desks and chairs, ripping up books.

They grabbed people by the ears, hurling them outside windows, breaking glass, cutting up stuffed dark creatures on display.

They bombed ink bottles, tore up Lockhart's pictures (which was probably the only good they've done), messed up hairdos.

They did everything people wished they wouldn't do.

"Professor!" A girl screamed, almost a high-pitched as the pixies. Two maniacal pixies kept trying to get into her robes.

Everyone turned to where Lockhart had been standing.

_He was gone._

Yells echoed through the room as frantic students made for the door. It was _locked_, sealed off by magic or something.

"What was he _thinking_?!" a random Slytherin screamed and ranted. "Professor Snape will hear about this! Don't bet he won't!"

"Shut up!" Draco snapped. He'd been standing very near the s_handsome_houting person and received full blast of the profanities. And he was drenched in what seemed to be Ron's scarlet ink. "Let's just try to get out!"

Blaise clapped him on the back in a would-be friendly way. "That using your head, Malfoy."

* * *

Two days afterwards, in which the Headmaster had a talk with Lockhart and where Blaise didn't say anything else of the friendly variety, Draco found himself alone on the way to the dungeons. 

"Hello," An icy voice stopped him in his tracks and he whirled around. It was a _first year_, the _nerve _of her to try to scare him.

"Yes?" He asked curtly, crossing his arms to appear bigger and meaner. He tried to remember her name, but couldn't.

"Draco Malfoy," the girl smirked. Draco glared at her utter lack of respect. Then his jaw dropped.

_Oh please please don't tell me she likes me. _Now, he didn't usually mind admirers...but this girl looked more a stalker than anything else. She wasn't even pretty - _handsome _more like - all bony and harpy-like.

The girl seemed to recognize his expression, then scoffed.

"_Please,_" (Draco sighed in relief) "Why would I like you?"

"Why would you follow me?" He shot back.

"I just wanted to see if the rumors were true," She smiled slyly as she turned around to leave. "It appears they are."

Draco, curiosity piqued and almost worried, headed her off before she could even reach the corner. "_What rumors?_"

"Well, people are talking about how _the _Draco Malfoy has _no more friends_." She mocked in a baby voice. "I thought it was about time for someone to say it to your face just how pathetic you are."

Draco sputtered in shock. " I - how _dare _you!" His voice rose and he had to restrain himself from beating her to a bloody pulp. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

She took a step back, then sneered at him. "Sure I do! _Everyone _knows what's happening. No one wants to pair up with you in class! No one wants to sit next to you!"

"That is _not_ true!" Draco shouted in uproar. "I'm alone because I want to be! I'm still the legendary Draco Malfoy your parents tell you about!"

"And you don't even know how to..._face the truth._ You're dumb, Malfoy... _Ugh_, your position is falling apart and all you do is sulk! You have no allies anymore! And you have no idea how to fix it, haven't you?! You can't even defend yourself properly!"

She left before Draco could react, running all the way to the Council room, never feeling safe 'til she reached there. Her heart was hammering. _By gods, all my life I've been told of the Malfoys. Now, I'm helping for the downfall of a legend._

* * *

Meanwhile, Draco just stood there, willing himself to believe that the incident was part of a dumb conspiracy against him. 

_She's just jealous, _He thought heatedly. _They're all just jealous._

* * *

It was Saturday morning, _dawn _to be exact. There were a small bunch of them in the Council room. Nobody complained of the ungodly hour, nor of the ever-so-cold air of the place. 

Violetta had just reported, in detail, of her 'incidents' with Draco, now done in the presence of assigned 'guards'. The most recent had only been yesterday at dinner, where he _finally _managed to get the best of her.

"...do you think he's good enough for the second test?" Ashford finished. She was tired of having to give alibis to her classmates on why she dared provoke someone higher up the power ladder.

"He's good enough," Imelda said, twirling her hair calculatingly. "But we don't need 'good enough', it's _best_ or nothing. Try again after Quidditch practice." She turned to a burly boy across the room. "I believe he signed out for tryouts?"

Adrian Pucey, sixth year Informer and Quidditch team contact, nodded. "We'll be heading to the field after this."

"_At 4am_?" Someone said in disbelief. Nott had just spoken out-of-turn.

"Yes, it's _tryouts_, anyone with enough bad luck to be late isn't needed on the team." Evil smile.

"Pucey?" Imelda interrupted sweetly.

Adrian sat up straighter, wary. It was well-known Imelda didn't like him, didn't forget how it was when _he'd _been _her_ first test. Leaders rarely forget, even more rarely _forgive_. "What?"

"Give Malfoy _hell_."

* * *

Despite the severe lack of illumination and the breezy misty air, the Quidditch field was packed with activity. It was mainly because Flint was the type of person to kick even the most veteran member if he sucked at tryouts. His motto was something like, "keep the best, dump the rest." 

There were around thirty of them trying out: first years trying to wheedle in, fourth years strutting their stuff on lovely new brooms, seventh years flying around trying to psych everyone else out. To them, no few hours of sleep was worth passing up the chance to tryout.

It was a rackety, dog-eat-dog world.

"I'll have you all know that there is _nothing_ I like better than to utterly destroy player wannabes," Flint was saying into a wand-turned-megaphone. "This is your last chance to fly away to wimpdom, capeesh?"

Nobody left, feeling more competitive than ever. Among them was Draco Malfoy, streaming along on his brand new Nimbus.

"Beaters!" Someone shouted from the far end of the pitch. Draco flew over there along with a handful of others bigger and thuggier than him. (And it was then that he noticed that they weren't really big and burly...it was more of a mental illusion. He wondered what sort of spell enabled that.)

It was Pucey who shouted. He and Warrington had a huge _jumping _trunk before them.

"You lot are brave," Pucey smiled, his face half-shadowed so only his evil smile shone through. "Not many are as keen to take on Bludgers without bats."

_What do they mean without - _The thought was cut off when the two sixth years kicked open the huge trunk and as many as ten bludgers zoomed out..._targetting them like a bullseye._

"First two to get their bludgers back in gets the positions!" Warrington shouted over the din of whizzing balls. He and Pucey had already gotten on their brooms and holding bats and battling it out.

_Santelli said tryouts were eighty-percent psyching out. _Draco thought bitterly as he dodged. _Damn him._

He scoped the ground looking for something - _branch _- _club _- anything!

Finally, he saw _it._ Someone had left their broom out. They were not getting it back again.

Draco swooped down and got it before the bludgers (_why were there TWO?!_) hit the stands behind him. _Now..._

It was twenty minutes later that Draco shocked everyone.

First, he managed to destroy a perfectly good broom in no time. Second, he made beater.

Warrington was too impressed to protest losing his place.

* * *

"You lot made it," Flint observed the bunch of them. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" 

Someone groaned in response. "Not funny, Flint. Not funny."

Flint ignored him. "We'll be heading out to practice, should be light 'bout now...someone just left a load of Nimbus 2001 broomsticks in the common room the other day. They're ours now."

Draco stood up suddenly. "Those were mine!"

All heads turned towards him.

"You were going to _bribe _your way into the team?" Adrian Pucey asked, disgusted.

"No," Draco snapped. "I don't need to. I made it, didn't I?"

"So you don't need those brooms anymore," Flint said with his cold greedy logic. "We'll take them then."

Draco looked jaw-dropped at him, as though about to protest, as though about to rant out about everyone (that means all Slytherins) treats him like shit nowadays so why-should-he-be-nice. But instead, he slumped back in his seat.

"Keep them," he said dully.

* * *

The Gryffindor team was on the field when they walked out, much to their chagrin. And the other team's, apparently. 

"I booked the field, Flint!" Wood bellowed. "You can clear off now!"

"Plenty of room, Wood," Flint was smirking, hiding equal rage behind a mask of 'diplomacy'. "We wanna put a little practice in."

"But I booked the field!"

"I know, no need to shout," If the captain was baiting Wood, he was succeeding. "It's a new team. I want to see how we check out."

"You can see later," he peered around the bigger guy trying to appraise the 'new' team. "We don't want you spying on our new tactics."

"_Spies?_" A chaser, Derrick, laughed, the rest followed. "We don't need them. Our team can flatten yours without resorting to such brute tactics."

The Slytherin team was standing shoulder to shoulder now, looking as solid as a brick wall.

"Now, _a field invasion_." Damien, still seeker, said with distaste. Ron and Hermione had just spilled on the field.

Ron was staring at Malfoy, now sporting team robes. The redhead made a face.

"What, Weasley?" Draco sneered, hoping his team wouldn't pick this time to abandon him again. "Didn't think I'd make the team?"

"Are those new broomsticks?" Hermione was asking, looking at them with interest.

"Ha!" Ron yapped. "You had to buy your way into the team! That's pathetic, Malfoy!"

"At least _you_ got in on pure talent," Hermione commented to Chris, now also a Seeker.

Pucey glanced sharply at the blond, wondering what he'll do.

Draco didn't bother correcting Ron or Hermione, knowing neither would believe him.

"_Oh, shut up, you filthy mudblooded scum_." He hissed instead.

Now, normally, this would trigger some sort of exaggerated reaction. But due to overuse in the current political climate, no one reacted too badly.

Draco remembered the first time he'd said it, the first time he'd received a sound beating because of that. Lucius had told him all about pure-blood and _dirty-common_ blood: _"There is a certain difference, Draco. The point is that you make sure you don't cross the line. You say it too much so you become dirty, dirty just like them."_

He never really understood it and therefore, never regretted saying it. He looked around.

Damien was, _shockingly,_ talking with Potter.

Flint was still baiting Wood, amused.

But Adrian Pucey was frowning.

* * *

A conversation between two shadows, heard in the deepest pits of the dungeons: 

"I thought you were going to make it hard for him," Wondering. Pissed. Female.

"I was, I set two bludgers after him." As-a-matter of fact. Concealed awe. Male.

"And he managed to get them? That's...wonderful." Surprise. Lingering doubt.

"Well, I believe one bludger got embedded into a stone wall. The other...he managed to knock back by breaking Higgs' Comet." Slight humor.

"Still," Pause. "I think we made the right choice."

"Don't we always?" Sardonic.

"Draco Malfoy is turning out _real _nicely." Approving. In deep thought.

"He's better than some." Hesitant. Almost afraid.

"I...have to agree." Also hesitant.

* * *

"I heard you got on the team," 

_She just had to ruin it._ "Sod off, Ashford."

"I think that's good." She took the seat next to him at the lunch table. "Maybe you'll get to salvage your reputation. Never mind being the scrapegoat, so long as you're on the team."

He ignored her. Most of the time, it was the best thing to do. Trying to put her in place was as impossible as putting Damien in _his_.

"I can't believe you made it though," She went on with spiced-up malice. "Is our House set on losing this year?"

"No," He said lazily, picking at his chicken. He had just lost his appetite.

"Wait, I think I get it now. I heard from the Gryffindors that you_ bought_ your way in!" She continued to provoke him in such a loud voice that even first-years stopped eating to listen. They didn't bother to hide their curiosity even when he sent them the death glare.

Suddenly, all the pent-up frustration and confusion and _rage _went spilling out of his gut. All those times of being left out of conversations, being insulted behind his back, being the lowest of the low came rushing back in a huge wave of anger.

_Losing to first-years..._

_If Ashford continues prattling about my ruined status..._

_Damn it!_

"Damn it," He pushed away his plate, grabbed the first-year in mid-sentence (something about his supposedly-tainted bloodline), and dragged her out of the hall.

It was a good thing she wasn't _too _thin, or else she might have broken something crashing into the wall like that.

"Look, Ashford, I've been trying to ignore you all week," He pinned her to the wall by the neck. "But you've gone too far in trying to push me down. Next time, I won't regret sending you to the Hospital Wing."

He could see that she was afraid. _More than afraid._

"Remember that," He finally said, coldly unruffled. The surge of anger calmed somewhat, but it was not totally gone. "And tell that to everyone else."

* * *

"I heard you," Blaise fell into step with Dracp as they headed to their common room. "Threatening a first year, Draco?"

"She was asking for it," Draco huffed, rolling his eyes. He appeared to restore some of his former dignity.

"I guess she did," Blaise shrugged ever-so-casually. "You finally put her in place."

"For good," Draco smirked. _I was right. With Ashford gone, everything is normal again._

"Yeah, I think I heard her crying about transferring to Beauxbatons." Blaise laughed. "That was good, Draco. You certainly know how to act when anyone tries to usurp you."

"Like _you_, you mean?" Draco's voice turned icy.

_So he hasn't forgotten. "_Me? Perish forbid."

They walked in silence for a while. "It's hard to stay on top." Blaise spoke up. "When anyone challenges you and they're not worth anything, you ignore them. But when they start doing _real lasting_ damage, you _crush _them."

Draco thought about it for a while. "Exactly,"

* * *

They were almost to the common-room when Damien suddenly stepped out, as though following something. His eyes were narrowed in suspicion and he looked ready to _spring_.

The dark-haired boy then noticed them. His entire being seemed to relax.

_"I heard something,"_ he said quietly, like it was the biggest secret in the world.

"That's not very good," Draco offered, but unconcernedly. He still hasn't forgotten.

"But if it sounded pathetic," Blaise smirked. "It was probably Malfoy here."

_The second test had begun._

End.

By the way, Warrington and Pucey are really chasers in the book. Derrick was a beater. I hope no one is too disappointed with this chapter (too many OCs!). I've seen people being ostracized and its the ugly. Think _Carrie (stephen king)._


	24. Chapter 24

This is the longest chapter I have ever attempted, mostly because it'll be the last update in a _long _time. I thought it'd be fun to take a quick ride into Damien's mind. You'll be having more of it in later chapters. This chapter is a lot more daring than I usually do but what the heck. All flames will be considered compliments. hahaha. I am freakishly happy right now.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. It belongs to my godess, J.K. Rowling.

**A Complicated World**

"_I've got no place to go  
I've got nowhere to run  
They'd love to watch me fall  
They think they know it all  
I'm a nightmare, a disaster  
That's what they always said  
I'm a lost cause, not a hero  
But I'll make it on my own  
I've gotta prove them wrong  
It's me against the world…__"_

* * *

"Well I think he did quite fine," Pansy said defensively. "I'd be furious if it were me."

"But it's not about _you_, isn't it?" A fourth year leader, Aidan Levin, snapped icily, a warning for speaking out of turn.

"That will do," Imelda said quietly. "He obviously did well if it was enough to traumatize Ashford. He certainly knows his place. But, as for the second test…?"

"It's happening," Blaise said automatically when everyone's gaze fell upon him. "I'm fairly sure Draco recognizes me as _competition _now."

"You know what you're supposed to do?" A fellow informer asked.

"Of course," Blaise sniffed haughtily. "But there's a…catch."

"_What _catch?"

"Well, the original plan was for Malfoy and Santelli to take on each other, _not that they're well-matched_…" Blaise made a frustrated noise and turned to Damien. "It would've been so much easier if you'd accepted. _Why didn't you?!_"

"I told you," Damien said sullenly. "I don't want to be involved with your _pureblood _politics. I can get _more_ power _elsewhere._" He paused. "But I wouldn't be able to do that if you're watching my every move, would I?"

"Who's watching?" Imelda said heatedly, eyes narrowed. If she didn't know any better, Damien Santelli had just _insulted_ the Slytherin Council, the _cad_. "We're merely making you the best, for our House."

Damien scoffed, seemingly unafraid, playing the ignorant arrogant fool. "Yes, ostracizing and insulting someone makes him the _best_. Did I miss something?" He added, laced with sarcasm.

"How dare you," Imelda's jaw dropped and her eyes widened. "Don't you understand that only by feeling what it's like to be the _lowest of the low _can Malfoy be a true leader? He needs to feel what it's like being _oppressed_ and _hated_ and _broken_. That's why he needs to survive this one year."

"Is that it? That's all it takes to be one of you?"

"Oh no, there is _so much more_," Imelda smiled calmly, previous anger forgotten. She was looking at Damien as though she understood what he was doing. "But you already know why we have to do these things, Santelli. _Why bother asking_?"

The others, silent during the exchange, waited for Damien to answer. It was not often that Imelda spoke so passionately.

"I was just wondering if _you_ knew," Damien shrugged.

"Oh, part of a secret society yourself?" another leader asked in an almost joking manner, but with a hint of something more meaningful.

Damien shook his head ruefully.

Beside him, a familiar-looking boy made a passing comment about "recklessness and arrogance and a next time…"

Blaise cleared his throat after a moment's silence. "As I've said, I can compete with Malfoy fairly well in, um, 'power play' but there's _no bloody way_ I can beat him in the others: academics, quidditch, strategy, and…the ever-so-plebeian _brawn_."

"I'll do academics," Damien said without a hitch, _finally_ helping. Perhaps there was finally something said which sparked interest in him enough. "And quidditch, if you want. Crabbe will do the fistfight and Greengrass the chess match. No problem there."

"No, no, that's all." Blaise said, concealing his shock very quickly._ Why didn't you just accept, Santelli?!_

"Are you quite sure you won't flub this up? Mind you, I don't like inconveniences." The only other female leader, a fifth year, spoke.

"I don't plan to," Damien drawled, affronted at the question.

* * *

The meeting went on to discuss possible leaders from the first years, particularly the two named Kidlatte ("almost as rich as the Blacks once were") and Solair ("excels in lessons, will probably make Head boy if he keeps it up").

Adrian Pucey then brought up their chances for Quidditch, without any snide comments. ("Gryffindor's a threat, _great_ chasers apparently. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw won't be a problem; they've been lagging behind on practice hours…")

The Council talked about almost everything that concerned Slytherin: _academia_ ("We only got Headboy this year, so N.E.W.T.s are no problem…next year, well, Percy Weasley's O.W.L.s are looking awfully good…"), _'socials'_ ("Only a couple of petty fights in my year, nothing to worry about…" and "I heard people talking of a ball during the holidays, you don't think it might be another you-know-what…"), _welfare _("No one's been hurt this week, most probably. If anyone is, they're not telling…"), _family problems _("No one's parent has been killed this week, though I've heard rumors of an Azkaban conviction for possession of…") and, most importantly, _the future_ ("I don't want anyone talking of taking sides as long as we're still in school. I want no one forced to join the Dark Lord or Dumbledore, it's their business. Our loyalty is to our House and nothing else.")

* * *

"Santelli!" Someone shouted from far behind him. Damien recognized the voice, but pretended not to hear it. He could hear the footsteps, walking very quickly towards him, _all three of them._

His name was called again and he turned around, face set in an expressionless mask. "No need to shout, Potter. If you haven't noticed, we're just outside the library. Pince'll have your head if you keep it up."

Chris glanced towards it and waved it off. "Of all places…we've been looking for you _everywhere_. We nearly got lost in the dungeons."

"It wasn't my fault George gave me that fake map!" Ron protested, turning pink.

"Next time, we follow my directions." Chris said then turned back to Damien. "We need to talk to you."

"I _believe_, you're doing that already." Damien drawled.

"Perhaps someplace else…" Hermione suggested nervously.

"I'm comfortable here," Damien's voice made no room for argument.

"Fine," Chris said, looking around. "I just hope Colin's nowhere near…"

"Get to the point, Potter." Damien rolled his eyes. "I don't need to know what your fan club's been up to lately."

"Okay, thing is…Headmaster's just told us…_we know about your parentage…_" Chris said in a conniving whisper.

Both Damien's eyebrows rose. "That's funny, _Potter_. You _know_ about my '_parentage'?_"

"Yes, Professor Dumbledore told us. I can't believe it."

"And he also told us to make friends with _you,_" Ron pitched in. "But I don't know why we bother. Even if you're a _muggleborn_, you're still the slimy snake we all hate."

"Ron!" Hermione squeaked.

"Oh don't a hypocrite, Granger. He's speaking true, _for once,_" said Damien in disdain. Then his voice turned to ice. "_You'll keep that secret if you know what's good for you_."

"Stop that," Chris snapped at Damien, unfazed by the threat. He was only the tiniest bit shorter then the Slytherin. "We're trying to be civil, can't you at least do the same?"

Damien seemed to think it over, then shrugged. "Fine, this _once._"

Chris opened his mouth to speak but Damien beat him to it.

"But that's all. Don't expect us to be friends, Potter. You should realize it's too late for that. There's too much…_bad blood_…between us." Damien said in an as-a-matter-of-fact manner, looking very sincere.

"See? I told you it was useless. He prefers to stay with his slimy pals." Ron said darkly. "All this chasing for nothing…"

Chris wasn't as eager to give up. "It was _one year of petty rivalry_, Santelli! It wasn't even you who was doing the insulting, I swear. Honestly, why would you choose Malfoy over us and _real friendship_?"

"Who said anything about Draco?" Damien scoffed. "I don't give a damn about Malfoy. And Potter? 'Petty rivalry' and 'real friendship' are words I can never associate with you. "

He started to walk away. Hermione, in a rare bout of nerve, walked up to him.

"You don't have to be ashamed of being muggleborn, Damien." She said gently but tentatively. She walked alongside him and tried to make light conversation. "What book is that?" She pointed to the dusty tome that he'd just borrowed from Madam Pince. When Damien didn't reply, she peered at the title. "Oh, _Hogwarts: A History…_it's a wonderful book. I've read it completely; it's so fascinating."

This time, Damien did reply. "_Fascinating?_ Is that all you can say?"

"Well, um, I mean to say that it was _very_ interesting to learn the history of the school. Like in 1318, when Ragda the Rebellious tried to…"

"Gods, Granger," Damien sneered. "You're an awful waste. You have a brain that could take over the world…but you just don't understand magic."

Hermione looked devastatedly hurt.

* * *

"I don't see why you're so eager to befriend him, Chris. I heard he was worse than Malfoy." Ron said as Hermione ran ahead.

"Don't you understand, Ron?" Chris was frustrated. "I thought maybe I could coax him to join our side. I'm trying to help as much as I can, by making friends with the Slytherins. He seemed the best place to start."

"No way," Ron shook his head in what he thought was the impossible. "You just don't make friends with their lot, Chris."

"You think I don't know that?" Chris asked disbelievingly. "If – if the war would indeed break, Ron, we may have… just talked to a Death Eater."

Footsteps alerted them to the sound of Hermione's return.

The brown-haired girl looked shaken.

"Hermione, are you all right?"

"I…I don't know what happened exactly. He told me I was smart, but said _I didn't understand magic_."

Ron growled, but Hermione continued.

"Then he said…"

"_But when you finally understand, Granger, Then I'll be afraid of you."_

* * *

On a Saturday a few days before Halloween, despite the stormy weather and bullet-sized raindrops and lightning strikes, the Quidditch teams were in full-out practice.

Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had given up after a mere two hours because of poor visibility (and maybe the unconscious knowing that the Cup would never be theirs).

Flint and Wood were still raging though, unwilling to admit that such _mild_ weather could get the best of them.

It was only when visibility was practically zero that Flint decided to call off practice. Slytherin pride can only take so much. He wasn't about to risk wizard-pneumonia a week or so before their first game. And besides, he said loud enough for the other team to hear, they were a _shoo-in_ with their brooms.

So, the green-clad players, wet, cold and muddy, trudged back to the castle gladly.

"Hey Malfoy," A loud voice rang through the sound of rustling wind. "We left the bludgers out. Beat them back to the box, would you?"

Draco, who had the beginnings of a bad cold, knew he had no choice. He could feel the cold coming from the other players whenever he flew too near, _like they didn't want to associate with him. _

Draco wished he knew _why _the world was coming apart, but at the same time, he was afraid of the answer.

It took him almost another hour to find the bludgers and get them strapped in, after which he was incredibly wet. it wasn't until then that it occurred to him that only a quick summoning charm was needed. _Anyone over fourth year could have helped him._

He would have wept if not for his pride.

He was dragging himself back to the castle, certainly sick now, when Chris crash-landed a few feet in front of him, splattering mud all over.

"Gah!" Chris pulled himself up from the heavy sticky earth. He glared at Draco. "I thought your hair was the snitch! Why do you have to be so glaringly _blond_, Malfoy?!"

"Ever heard of an apology, Potter?!" Draco shouted back scathingly as he wiped mud off his broomstick. Good, someone to vent out on.

"Sure I have," Chris fired back, slinging his own Nimbus over his shoulder. "Didn't think you did though."

"Can't see the snitch, can you? Gryffindor mustn't be that serious if they took on a blind seeker."

"Can't you grow up, Malfoy?!"

"Can't you?!"

They squabbled all the way to the castle, trampling over muddy gardens.

Their shoes were so muddy that they made loud squelching noises as the pair walked through the corridor leading up to the Great Hall, attracting the attention of a certain cat.

They passed Ginny as they walked and Chris stopped in his tirade to say hello. Ginny didn't even acknowledge him, her eyes was blank. In her hands were a bunch of school books. She swept past them almost airily.

"Sort of reminds me of the bad Imperius," Draco frowned, looking back at the redhead.

"What did you say?" Chris asked sharply. He could swear he heard Malfoy mention a spell, a _dark_ spell. "Was that Imper–"

But, fortunately for Draco, they were disrupted when Damien emerged from a nearby corridor, looking inconspicuous. He, clean and showered, merely looked at the pair of them before disappearing away.

"He was following Ginny," Chris noticed, then scowled. He would have followed the dark-haired boy if only he knew which way he'd gone to. _Damn these hallways._

"I don't think so, Potter." Draco sneered. "Santelli doesn't associate with the likes of blood traitors like her."

Chris smirked. "I could tell you a thing or two about your friend…"

"He's no friend of mine," Draco hissed so harshly that Chris was taken aback.

_Would it be considered too nosy to ask what happened?_

Chris did not get a chance to ask.

At the end of the corridor, Filch was looking irate and dangerous, Mrs. Norris at his feet.

"_Filth!_" he shouted, his eyes popping and his purple nostrils flaring. "Muck and grime defiling the floors! Befouling the castle! I've had enough of you, you vile gremlins (_"Gremlins would be insulted," thought Draco)_! To my office, both of you! I'll hang you by the skin of your toes!"

* * *

Filch's office was a miserable little room without windows or even proper lighting. It was very small and it smelled of cats and cat food and cat shit. Draco, despite his clogged nose, seemed to be gagging on the stench.

He stood closest to the door why Filch sat down on his decrepit old desk, trying to look as impassive as he could.

As Filch was recording down their offense, Draco pointed to the manacles on the ceiling and smirked. "Scared, Potter?"

Chris rolled his eyes but paled nonetheless.

Draco was about to suggest for Chris to be hung from the ceiling as punishment when something crashed on the floor above them with a big 'BANG!'

"PEEVES!" Filch roared, flinging down his quill and ran from his office without a backwards glance.

The two boys glanced at the door, both harboring thoughts of escape. Draco shook his head sulkily and fell into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk.

"Run if you want, Potter. I'll just stay here." _With my luck these days…_

Chris shook his head. His eyes fell upon the desk, then widened.

"He's a squib," Chris gasped, almost laughingly.

Draco was looking at him oddly.

"_You didn't know_?" There was disgust in his tone. "It's common knowledge, at least to us anyway. What a scandal it had been…The last Filch…and a _Squib._"

"No wonder he's so bitter." Chris smothered a grin.

"It's not funny, Potter," Draco scowled at him. "It's _heart-breaking_. It's about the worst thing that could happen. It's every pureblood's _nightmare_. But, of course, I don't expect you to understand. People like you don't care for blood anymore."

"I didn't mean to – "Chris began apologetically.

Filch barged in suddenly, saw Chris holding the letter, and went brick red. He snatched the letter and threw it into the drawer.

Filch wasn't as angry with Draco as he was with Chris, for some reason. But he seemed to have forgotten the defiled floors and befouled castle and let them go after madly shrieking a few choice words and letting Mrs. Norris loose upon them.

"Thank Merlin he can't dock points," Chris sighed in relief. "Wait 'til Dad hears I got out of Filch's office unscathed."

Draco pretended to not have heard anything, but the word 'Dad' set off alarms in his head. _He had to send his Father a message, and soon._

* * *

Outside, hiding behind a polished statue of a winged-lion, the Gryffindor ghost was waiting for Chris.

"Did it work?" He asked Chris excitedly, bobbing up and down on the air. He received a blank look in reply. "I saw _you_ with Filch, _and__he's not quite happy today_, so I persuaded Peeves to crash the Vanishing Cabinet right over his office. Thought it might distract him. It got a little smashed though, pity."

Draco could've been invisible for all the acknowledgement he got from Nick. He jerked uneasily at the mention of the Vanishing Cabinet, especially the thought that it was broken.

Finally realizing that his arse was saved, Chris thanked the ghost gratefully while Draco inspected the remains of the black-and-gold cabinet. _Quirrel was not going to be happy._

"We wish there was something we could do for you," Chris offered, including the other boy on purpose.

"We, Potter?" Draco commented snidely. "I don't remember needing help. And if I did, I certainly don't believe in reciprocation."

The blond walked away before Chris could entangle him more in what was fated to be an ill misadventure.

He didn't see the two Slytherin seventh years watching from the shadows of the hall across them, one of whom was Imelda Rosier.

It was Draco's rotten luck that she happened to be around that exact moment.

* * *

The next morning, in the second year boy's dormitory, Draco awoke to the sound his bedside curtains being hastily pushed open. Shadows loomed over him.

It wasn't after he'd grabbed his wand from under his pillow ('a necessary precaution') that he saw that it was only Blaise and Nott and Millicent and Daphne, all with raised eyebrows.

"What is it?" He demanded indifferently, standing up.

"Well," Daphne stepped closer, still wearing that inscrutable expression. "We've heard the Gryffindor ghost, the almost headless one, is having a Deathday party on Halloween. We thought it might be fun to crash it, are you joining us?"

"Why should I?" Draco yawned with an air of nonchalance, stretching his arms with languid grace.

"Oh for heaven's sake, do you _really_ need a reason?" Millicent threw her hands up. "If you don't want to come, it's fine. But we don't seem to see much of you lately, Malfoy."

"Yeah, don't you know that you're really missing out on stuff? One is naturally inclined _to wonder…_"

It was then that Draco knew it was a trap. _And it was too late._

* * *

_In the Owlery, dawn hours._

"What are you doing, Damien?" The question was spoken with an odd accent, deep and commanding and disapproving. "You are unfocused and erroneous. You have forgotten."

"I'm doing everything perfectly," Damien cut in sharply, defiant but confident. "And don't talk like you know better."

"I am reminding you," The voice was less forceful now, though the displeasure remained. "That time is running out. And you have not done anything of importance."

"I," Damien smirked. "have all the time in the world, _literally_. You'll understand what I'm doing soon enough."

"Giving the Philosopher's stone to the Dark Lord? Making yourself known? And now _chasing after a little girl_?" A derisive snort. "I doubt if I'll ever understand."

"I'll explain the last bit to you then, if only to stop you nagging."

"Please do,"

"That _little girl _happens to have something important. I can start _negotiating_ with the Dark Lord when I finally get it." His voice was emotionless, as though talking about a trivial matter.

"Pssh, you don't need to take so long. I swear this bigheadedness of yours…I've heard them talking about it…they call you 'arrogant' and say that 'he does not know his place'."

"Who says that?" Damien asked, a slight cruel smile gracing his face.

"The green children," _It was referring to Slytherin obviously_.

"It's none of their concern, and it's not yours either." Damien said with a tone of finality, straightening up from where he had been sitting. "I happen to like taking my time, and getting my way without _these_."

He paused for a while, looking down at his hands, where bright lights and dark lights had appeared. He sneered at them, looking as though they were holding fire, and doused them quickly.

He shooed the owl out.

"Off with you, Gabriel, I expect the reply in a week. Don't get yourself killed now."

* * *

"_Why is he here?"_

"Subtlety must be expensive, Weasley," Draco retorted just for the sake of it. "Obviously you couldn't afford it."

Draco had always known Blaise and the others would not show up. The best was that they might pass by after the Halloween feast, only to see if he was there.

_It's no use to accuse them of anything. They could easily say that they simply changed their minds. _

He was trailing behind the three Gryffindors – maintaining a respectable distance – for he was rather in the mood for _living_ companions. The clammy gloominess was getting quite uncomfortable.

_But I couldn't NOT go, because Zabini would only use that against me. And it is simply unheard of to call them liars. That would be hypocritical._

"Why are you here, Malfoy?" Chris' voice cut through the delightfully bad mood the Slytherin was in.

Draco looked up, looking almost bored.

"I promised someone I'd be here. And you know me; I _never_ back out on a promise." _Sarcasm had always been strong in his family._

"Yeah, right." Chris scoffed. It was only Damien with whom he acted differently; he was still every bit as malevolent towards Draco as before. _Because Malfoy didn't have the saving grace of being a muggleborn, _he told himself.

"I'd probably be leaving soon anyway," Draco mumbled as he inspected the seared fish, trying to imagine it edible. "I won't ruin your silly little party."

"It's not silly," Hermione spoke up, eyes actually sparkling. "It's absolutely fascinating. Oh, there's so much I want to ask them."

Draco snorted incredulously. "I can imagine: _'Excuse me! Excuse me, Mr. Baron! How is it you got those bloodstains, Sir? They're absolutely fascinating!'_ Is that it, Granger?"

"No," Hermione looked away, frowning.

"Don't pay attention to him, Hermione," said Chris comfortingly. "Ehm – what did you want to ask? I reckon it's more important than bloodstains."

Hermione seemed unable to speak for a moment, gazing at the pearly white people. "How do people become ghosts?" Her voice was breathless. "Why do some come back while others _don't_? My father didn't come back."

There was a sharp intake of breath that couldn't be identified as whose.

Draco had the most peculiar expression on his face, halfway between couldn't-care-less and highly-bothered.

"I guess…that's one thing you can't read about in a book." He finally said, deliberately insulting.

"As if you know!" Hermione half-sobbed in an unusually high voice.

"I do know," Draco's voice darkened. "That's one of the things _purebloods _are taught early on."

"Ron?" said Hermione. Ron shook his head.

"_Proper _purebloods, Granger. The Weasley's wouldn't consider those things important. It's too ancient and decidedly _purist_, simply wouldn't fit in with their new liberal ideas."

"What do you mean by that?" Ron said threateningly.

"That's enough." A silvery-white form suddenly materialized, freezing the surrounding air. It occurred to them that they never actually heard the Bloody Baron speak before, and they'd rather it not speak again. His words seemed to be made of icy water, hitting them again and again, making them shiver. "Enough."

It looked imperiously at the four, studying their faces. Possibly satisfied, it hovered away, straight-backed and entirely frightening.

"I must say," Another voice piped up, curious. "I've never saw him talk with humans before. It must be your unlucky day!"

"Peeves," Chris' eyes widened behind his classes. "_Don't_…he might come back."

"Don't think so! He only pops up 'bout once!" Peeves twirled in the air. "He doesn't like these parties."

"With good reason," Draco tried to say scathingly, but his chattering teeth rather ruined it. "I'm leaving as well."

He hadn't gone one step when he 'collided' with glummest, most sorry-looking ghost he'd ever met.

"Oist! It's Myrtle!" Peeves pirouetted over. Hermione tugged at Chris and Ron to go before disaster happens.

"Myrtle! So glad you could come, dearie," The poltergeist adopted a pompous old voice. "We've just been talking 'bout you. Miss Granger's been telling me how _lovely_ you look tonight."

Myrtle's sullen glare zeroed in on the wide-eyed Hermione. She swooped after the Gryffindor Trio. "You're making fun of me!" She shrieked, fat tears spilling over and vanishing just before they hit the ground. "Don't lie! People are always talking behind my back!"

"No – no, Myrtle!" Hermione tried to appease the angry spirit. "I didn't say anything!"

"Yes, she did!" Peeves piped up from behind them. "She called you _pimply_, my dear!"

Myrtle let out a great wail that caught everyone's attention and dived into the floor.

"What a sorry sight," Chris sneered.

Draco turned on him, _disgusted_. But very different from the way he was disgusted by mudbloods. _This was almost personal_.

He could see himself in Myrtle.

_But the poor girl didn't have his ironclad pride to save her._

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Her voice was tear-strained. "Came to laugh at me?"

"No, I – I don't know." Draco hesitated. He had no idea how to appease ghosts. "I thought I could do something. But it's just not me."

"Well, that's honest, at least." Myrtle floated out of her cubicle, drying her face. "Now get out!"

_Great, the only time you want to help someone, you find out you can't. _Draco thought to himself. _Because you can't even help youself._

He slipped on a puddle of water and fell flat on his back, the cold dirty water seeped into his robes. _And you lose your dignity along the way. Brilliant._

_That_ elicited a giggle from Myrtle. Draco scowled.

"Go on, _laugh,_" He sneered, getting up cautiously. "It's nice to know I exist for something."

Myrtle stopped giggling and blushed silver. "I'm sorry…"

Draco was about to make another sarcastic comment when suddenly, there was a commotion outside.

A dull thud signified something heavy falling on the floor. Frantic movement. A cat hissing and spitting. Frail footsteps.

Draco trained his wand on the door, a curse on his lips. The footsteps receded into silence.

He pushed open the bathroom door, where someone promptly slammed into it. _Hard_.

Damien had been running after the cold, murderous voice, knowing heartily that he was going to catch it, when that _blasted door_ was suddenly in the way.

He was running too fast to avoid it and his mind was racing too fast (all intent on reaching the voice) that no anti-barricade spell could get though.

_Damn damn damn! _The dark-haired boy thought angrily. It was too late, he knew, the trail was lost.

"What were you chasing after, Santelli?" Draco's eyes were narrowed in suspicion. "You were running awfully fast."

"Well I won't get to find out, won't I?" Damien pushed himself off the ground. His next words were cut off when his eyes fell on the writing on the wall across them.

"_The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir beware"_

Bold letters written in what looked to be blood.

Beside it, Filch's cat was hanging, looking grotesque in the torchlight.

Approaching footsteps indicated the arrival of someone else.

Damien hastily pushed Draco back into the bathroom and followed in. He peeked through the cracks in the doorway.

_It's Chris and his bruhaha's, _Damien smirked. He gave no indication of noticing Draco behind him, even when the other boy coughed pointedly.

Outside, the Gryffindor's had stopped dead at the sight of the hanging cat, abject horror on their faces.

Then, as though someone pulled the switch on Murphy's Law, the feast ended. It was too late as students suddenly crashed into the corridor from both ends, all talking animatedly.

The chatter, however, died down into an uneasy silence as people spotted the stiff grisly sight.

"This is the last time we use one of your shortcuts!" Hermione hissed through the din.

* * *

"_Obliviate. You never saw me_."

Damien slowly eased himself into the crowd while everyone's attention was diverted. He took one last look at Mrs. Norris before pushing out of the crowd towards the dungeons.

Draco chose to stay behind, to try to find out what's going on.

* * *

It did not take a long time or a long explanation to disperse the crowd of students. A hasty statement, a teacher's stare and Filch's murderous look were enough to scare most of them away. Only the very brave, the very foolish, and the very curious stayed behind, and lost a great amount points before they too surrendered.

Draco had been personally escorted out of the corridor by Snape, who told him in no uncertain terms that he'd be in big trouble if he dared argue. But the blond could not help noticing that his godfather was trying very hard not to smile.

The trio, who kept proclaiming innocence, had to be barred magically from the corridor as well.

Back at the scene, Dumbledore had levitated Mrs. Norris unto a conjured table and was examining her very meticulously.

Snape and McGonagall hovered behind him, half cast in shadow.

Lockhart was excitedly talking about how he could have saved the cat if only he'd been there on time. He was making a silly goose of himself.

Dumbledore must've taken pity on him though, for the old man finally explained that the car was _not _dead but Petrified.

Lockhart stopped in his ramblings and made a face, looking like he was trying to remember something important. "Ah yes! I thought something was off…"

"It was Potter! It was Potter!" Filch spat, purpling in the face. "You saw him! He was standing right under Mrs. Norris!"

"Oh, come now! No twelve-year-old would know such dark magic!" McGonagall defended angrily, as thought she herself had been accused. "Young Mr. Potter would be the last person I'd expect to do such a thing! Mr. Malfoy on the other hand…_he_ had been acting funny all week. And _he_ had no business lurking on the second floor tonight, yet he was here."

"Why, Professor," Snape spoke, a slight sneer curling his mouth. "would you accuse Draco? He is as much a twelve-year-old as Potter, who had no business here as well. He was supposed to be at the Halloween Feast, was he not?"

Her turned his head to Dumbledore, but not taking his heated gaze off the witch. "Headmaster, I find it very suspicious that Potter was here, of all places to be for _our young hero_. I propose he be questioned about the incident, with Veritaserum preferably."

McGonagall gasped in indignance. "How could you even propose such a thing, Severus! Mr. Potter is a student, not some criminal!"

"Merely suggesting," Snape shrugged.

"I believe," said Dumbledore, sounding tired. "that neither boy is to blame for this. This is dark magic is the most advanced…If I'm right about who's responsible for this, then I'm afraid this school is in danger. We must act quickly."

Lockhart thought it about time to put in his two cents. "Yes, of course, Headmaster. In fact, I seem to remember a situation much like this one, I'm sure I'll be able to prevent any –"

Snape apparently had enough of glory-seeking gits.

"Gilderoy," he said with biting relish. "Just because no one bothered with you while in school doesn't mean you have to pain us all with your ludicrous tales of magic."

Lockhart stood silent for a while, quite humiliated, then nodded.

_He had forgotten that Slytherins don't hesitate to hit below the belt, unlike the others._

* * *

_Dad,_

_Have you heard what's happened in Hogwarts this week? Mrs. Norris' been attacked by something and it's looking bad. My friends and me are sort of suspects, can you believe that? I can't believe it either._

_The attacked left an odd message too, about a 'chamber of secrets' and an 'heir'. It sounds rather familiar. I knew I should've listened harder to Mum when she tells me about this things. We'll simply ask around, I guess._

_And we're going to investigate a bit too, but we'll be REALLY careful, I promise. Thing is, we need Polyjuice potions. We would've made it ourselves but it's bloody complicated. Think you can send us a batch with your reply, we'd appreciate it._

_Quidditch match is coming up, against Slytherin. I do hope we win._

_Chris_

_P.S. Hermione reckons its Malfoy. He's been acting odd all year._

* * *

_Chris,_

_We are fine, thank you for asking. But your mum's beside herself with worry. This attack is serious business, Chris. I mean it. Dumbledore has a hunch on what the attacker is, and I reckon he's right. He always is. They're talking about tightening security on the castle, especially on muggleborns for a reason I can't tell you (shhh, don't want people to panic)._

_Don't be surprised too if a team of Order members suddenly show up there. They'll be hunting down something, so keep us posted if anything unusual comes up. Don't even try to find out what 'something' is._

_The message on the wall, which I heard Filch is unable to remove, is our lead. It's a bit hard to explain, but I'd recommend you read 'Hogwarts: A History' to get the significance._

_Be safe, Chris. Don't dig too deep, especially into Malfoy. He might know something but don't mess with him. If the rumors are true, his father one evil son-of-a-…sorry, slipped out._

_Dad_

_P.S. Almost didn't send the potions, but Sirius convinced me otherwise._

_P.P.S. Your mum has no idea._

* * *

"We have found the diary, my Lord." The figure under the hooded cloak said in a perfectly controlled voice. "It is at Hogwarts, and _it has attacked_. Dumbledore and his Order have already begun hunting."

"I thought," The Dark Lord, _undescribleable in his total greatness_, whispered with dangerous calm. "That any _competent_ Death Eater would manage to find it before someone discovers how it works."

"It had been…_difficult_…to locate." A different voice talked once obtaining permission. "Intelligence had been sure it was in Diagon Alley as recent as this summer but…"

"But it is now at Hogwarts, being used and pursued!" The icy voice was louder, more high-pitched. "And Dumbledore knows its importance because of Black! One of the vessels of my immortality is in danger of being destroyed!"

He paused and his voice died down to a hiss. "And whose fault is that…"

Both Snape and Lucius blanched behind their masks, for the diary had been theirs to keep safe.

"It is not too late to save yourselves," Voldemort whispered in a way that the words trickled through their ears alone, inaudible to everyone else. "It will not be easy. That Horcrux is charmed to elude capture. You _can_ find it before Dumbledore does, _as it is partial to Slytherins._"

* * *

"It is crucial that we find it first, for the future of our world." Dumbledore finished, after explaining the task to the team of Order members.

Some were looking positively green at the thought of _seven _Horcruxes, which was, to them, seven ways to die.

* * *

"I know where it is." Damien told himself. "I'll get it first."

* * *

The entirety of Hogwarts School reacted oddly to the attack. For the very next day, almost half the students had some sort of talisman against evil.

Some older slytherins had laughed at them, asking why they would need protection from something that doesn't exist.

Teachers insisted on escorting everyone between classes.

Students huddled in groups (as though this would save them).

Dumbledore arranged for roosters to sprout all over the place, making the halls smell like a chicken-house.

* * *

"Let's just pretend we understand why the Headmaster has cocks all over the place," Daphne said sardonically upon entering the common room.

"He's insane," Pansy said, moving over so Daphne could sit. "It's only a matter of time before the rest of the world finds that out. Where've you been?"

"Destroying a ravenclaw," She remarked.

"Avada or something else?" Pansy deadpanned.

"No, git challenged me for a chess match _for five galleons. _He had it coming."

"Practicing?" Blaise asked from across them.

"No," Daphne sighed. "Malfoy's style is quite different, much harder to counteract."

"You'd better win." Blaise said in all seriousness.

"I'm not going to lose, Zabini." Daphne growled, and Blaise quickly remembered why he'd sworn off all Slytherin girls.

He went back to measuring his History of Magic essay.

"The spell says I'm two inches short of what Binns asked," He said in mock dismay.

"And?" Theodore Nott interrupted with a smirk.

"Well, if there's one subject I _hate _losing to Hermione Granger at, it's _History of Magic,_" replied the black boy.

"Because it's _my _ancestors who were there."

* * *

It was to be the only unforgettable session they'd have with Binns.

It started innocently enough…

"Professor," Hermione said in a nervous but clear voice. "Can you tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"

The question alone was enough to destroy the stupor in the classroom.

Professor Binns had hesitated at first, making excuses about facts and legends, but it was inevitable that he answer the question.

"It is a very _sensational_ tale, Miss Granger, quite ridiculous, though if you insist…"

He started telling them all about how Hogwarts was founded, how the four Houses came to be…

"_They built this castle together, far from prying muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution…"_

Then the story of Slytherin and Gryffindor's great rift unraveled…

"_Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students. He disliked students of muggle parentage, untrustworthy, he said."_

Finally, he told them of the Chamber of Secrets.

"_Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, and sealed it. Only his own true heir would be able to open it, unleash the horror within, and use it to plague the school."_

There was silence when he finished talking.

Binns almost let out a sigh of relief.

But a voice spoke up, coolly arrogant. "That is not true."

It was his fifth year class of Gryffindors and Slytherins, being delivered by Snape, who gave an approving smirk to the girl who spoke up.

"Yes, yes, a very fanciful legend…" Binns agreed swiftly, a knot of unease in his tone.

"No, I meant the tale about the Founders. You made it sound as though Salazar Slytherin had been wrong."

_No! Please! No debate! I've had a happy eight decades without a debate!_

"It was Gryffindor who should've left. He'd been the reckless one."

"Now, you _might _be right Miss –"

"No way, Professor! Gryffindor was right. He wasn't some bigoted blood-obsessed dark wizard!"

"He wasn't _bigoted_. I'm not about to let you tarnish Slytherin more than you already have, you biased ignorant mudblooded –"

"Now see here! I will not tolerate name-calling –"

"She was putting the mudblood in his place, Professor. He deserved it after pretending to know better about our founder!"

Then several people began to shout at once.

Slytherin dominated one side of the room while Gryffindor occupied the other and Binns was in no-man's-land. They were all on their feet and, even the cool reserved Slytherins, were shouting.

It was no petty fight, not about quidditch or points. It was about their ideals and their blood, as sensitive as the brewing war.

And when the lesson ended, no one doubted that the two Houses had officially broken out of the cold war they've sustained for centuries.

* * *

_Council Room, emergency meeting wherein everyone was torn from their homework…_

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Even if it kills me to say it, I'm sorry!" The fifth year girl said in distraught, but she wasn't crying; her eyes were dry. "You know I would never do anything to hurt Slytherin!"

"Well it's too late for that now." Imelda Rosier snapped. She didn't elaborate, _didn't need too_. She kept on pacing, posture perfect, wringing her hands frustratedly.

"You know they'll _persecute_ us for this, especially since it turned out to be Slytherin's monster that attacked that cat." Imelda's junior, Cassius Meliflua, said angrily, so angrily that one could barely hear the helplessness behind it.

"Have someone look out for threats, and sudden bias in classes." Imelda instructed. "The first and second years should be able to protect themselves, but I want someone to check on them now and then, but careful that they don't see. We don't like being fussed over."

"Our Death Eater contact," Someone began tentatively. A few turned their eyes away, uncomfortable but unflinching. "knows nothing about the attacks. If they're involved, not everyone knows." _Meaning: it's nothing or it's SOMETHING._

"All right," Imelda nodded to the group, feeling very much the gravity of her position. "Until we know more, I want all Slytherins to distance themselves as much as possible. Nobody get involved in the attacks. Give them no reason to blame us."

* * *

"Parseltongue,"

"Parseltongue,"

"Parseltongue!"

"Open you blasted wall! Parseltongue!"

* * *

"What are you doing here, Draco?"

"I've been barred from the common room, apparently."

Snape sighed. "Very well, I will take you there."

"_Don't_…not now…" Draco looked pained.

"What's happening to you, Draco?"

"I'm perfectly fine."

"You've been acting odd, so odd in fact I had to cover for you because Minerva McGonagall has you pegged for slytherin's heir."

"I have no idea, Professor, why she thinks me that. Can't a person change without being accused of evil or something as horrid?"

"Well, you're definitely more _amiable_ now. There's hope for you yet."

"Professor, do you have any idea about this 'heir'?"

"A great deal more than I care to admit," said Snape sourly.

"Maybe I can help? Like last year?"

"This is a bit more complicated than that, Draco. It's not just spells and barriers we're dealing with now."

"What are you going on about, Severus?"

"Just think of it as a game of cat and mouse, Draco." Snape smirked at his own analogy. "We've just hadn't determined who _exactly_ is the mouse."

* * *

And there it is. The result of 3 days of lounging around by the computer, doing little else.

End.


	25. HEADS UP!

HAI GUYS! :DDD

~0~

Okay, so I'm going to cap off this story once I finish rewriting the chapters I've already posted. A sort of FINALE chapter so I can finally, finally put this story to rest.

I don't expect anyone to still be reading, this is a pride thing.

Anyone who still gets the alert for this chapter and bothers to read it, I THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for, you know, egging my younger self on even when the story and the characters were really, _really_ bad.

Rewriting now.

~0~


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